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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23387827">As far as feelings go</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aekotara/pseuds/Aekotara'>Aekotara</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Happy Ending, Humor, Jaskier will tame the wolfs of Kaer Morhen, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Threesome - M/M/M, mark my words</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:33:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>100,104</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23387827</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aekotara/pseuds/Aekotara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>[FIC UP FOR ADOPTION. YOU CAN FINISH IT HOW YOU WANT. Read 1st chapter note.]</p><p>The Blue Mountains rose far away on the horizon. In their vast expanse, they shielded the northern kingdoms from Haakland and Zerrikania. At their feet, somewhere, laid Dol Blathanna. From them, the Yaruga river was born and against them crashed and pushed through the Gwellench, also known as the White River. </p><p>By its side walked a Witcher, following its course up to the north of Kaedwen. Kaer Morhen valley waited for him at the end and in it the ruins he called home. Alongside him tagged his faithful horse. The mare, strong and willing, carried his silver sword and his saddlebags. Willingly too, someone else followed their every step.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>520</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>695</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Unwelcome tag along.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>IF YOU LIKE IT, YOU CAN PICK IT UP AND FINISH IT HOWEVER YOU WANT. I CAN ALSO GIVE YOU THE DRAFT/IDEAS I HAD. IF YOU WANT IT, JUST COMMENT SO. YOU CAN COPY ALL THE CHAPTERS TO YOUR ACCOUNT AND I'LL DELETE THIS FIC. I JUST ASK IF YOU DON'T GET AROUND TO FINISHING IT, THAT YOU DO THE SAME.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Blue Mountains rose far away on the horizon. In their vast expanse, they shielded the northern kingdoms from Haakland and Zerrikania. At their feet, somewhere, laid Dol Blathanna. From them, the Yaruga river was born and against them crashed and pushed through the Gwellench, also known as the White River.</p><p>By its side walked a Witcher, following its course up to the north of Kaedwen. Kaer Morhen valley waited for him at the end and in it the ruins he called home. Alongside him tagged his faithful horse. The mare, strong and willing, carried his silver sword and his saddlebags.</p><p>Inside leather pockets, many ingredients were kept safe and properly conserved. She carried his dried meat, his many tools and even a book or two. There was a razor, for stabbing and shaving. A sharper one, to skin his prey. In the deepest darkest corner hid a purse with his coin, one that he’d usually wear on his belt if he thought there was anyone with grabby hands nearby.</p><p>The Witcher would use roots, leaves, food, monster’s parts and even dust to make potions and salves, and his mare carried it all without complaint. He kept tabs on what he had and what he hadn’t. What he needed and what he didn’t. Also on what he hoped he wouldn’t need.</p><p>He had made himself ready for a torturous way back home, even worse than usual. This year, while the frozen grounds, the biting wind and the uneven mountains that he’d get to were not to be underestimated, the war became the biggest threat. It was over, or so they said. But it wasn’t really over. Not for a Witcher. Not when the roads and the forests and the rivers brimmed with monsters eager to feast on the momentary downfall of humankind, or wishfully hoping to get back whatever land had always been theirs.</p><p>Geralt tried his best not to come across them but he had a path to stick to that would take him as fast as possible, as easily as possible, back home. No amount of unnecessary blood spill would prevent him from finally getting a rest. If he was lucky, he’d even be the first to enjoy the hot springs of Kaer Morhen.</p><p>In his saddlebags, there was Bindweed, a shiny green dulled by the dirty glass. He hadn’t been lucky. He knew Royal wyvern were sometimes found, or should be said, they found their victims, in the valley, up north. But here, down here? No, that ravenous, poisonous female shouldn’t have been on a two days travel from her home. Good thing the Witcher was nothing if not a hoarder and the Albedo, once more, had come in handy. He was fine, of course he was.</p><p>He was Geralt of Rivia, after all. The Butcher of Blaviken.</p><p>So he had butchered the beast with tremendous effort and agility. Now it probably floated down the river, in the opposite direction his slayer headed to. It would scare the living shit out of a farmer boy or a fisherman, but they’d live. He could have walked back, and claimed a price for the head. Or he could have walked forward as he was, and done the same.<br/>But he didn’t, because there weren’t villages big enough to bother with that. Not when he woke up in the morning with joints stiffened by the cold and when he could see his every breath.</p><p>Not when he was being so blatantly followed.</p><p>He glanced once more, over the coat of sheep’s wool, past the hilt of his steel sword. The first time he had heard him had been after he purposely walked around a small village, little more than a bunch of poorly built crumpled houses. In between narrow streets, as the snow fell, a wedding kept people happy and dancing to a simple tune and simpler rhymes. Any reason to party after the war, no matter how feeble the excuse, was welcomed, and a bard, needed.</p><p>Maybe it was Geralt’s fault. He shouldn’t have stopped so near their settlement but ahead laid a long sinuous stretch through the unforgiving barren land. The forest was bad enough, but the cold was unbearable when there were no branches, no trunks to fight off the frozen claws of the wind. Geralt could have made it if he had had to, but not Roach.</p><p>He had hoped against hope he wouldn’t be recognised. He should have known Jaskier wasn’t one to miss a single detail, even if half-drunk. So as he walked by the side of their barricade of poorly tied poles and disparate angles that still stood proud only because the war hadn’t travelled so far up the north, he heard it for the first time.</p><p>The fidgeting. The bloody fucking god-forsaken fidgeting.</p><p>Did bandits fidget, hold one hand in the other, hold back a breath? No, they did not. They were too stupid for that. Geralt showed their arrogance no mercy.<br/>Did beggars, then? Did they watch out for their step so as not to snap a twig, so as not to silent the birds with their presence? No, they could not. Not shame nor pride would feed them, only the witcher’s mercy.</p><p>So who else, if not Jaskier, would tag for days like a clumsy shadow?<br/>Geralt, as sure as he was that he had heard his voice and his lute on the village, still bothered to check. It wasn’t hard to do. There were glimpses every now and then, mistakes in Jaskier’s rather proper hide and seek. If it weren’t a Witcher he followed, nobody would be any wiser that he trailed right behind.</p><p>Sometimes there was a soft, faint, imperceptible whistling when Jaskier couldn’t keep silent anymore but knew better than to sing or play. Human ears would have mistaken it for the chirping of a white-winged crossbill, but Geralt knew it to be the exasperation of the bard as the sun fell and he had spent yet another day in utter silence. Bored. Cold. Alone in all the ways that mattered.</p><p>More often than not, if he turned around abruptly just for the sake of amusement, Jaskier would still like a deer and jump like a rabbit, pressing himself tightly against a tree. As if there weren’t a few too many steps left behind in the snow. As if Geralt couldn’t see the bright yellow doublet’s cuffs peeking from thick wool sleeves, from beyond the edge of the bark on where white-knuckled hands held.</p><p>In the barren land, before he had reached and stuck to following Gwellench, the wyvern had roared above their heads. Mighty even as small as she was, fast and lethal and almost as hungry as Geralt himself, she had fought fiercely. But it was nothing he hadn’t done before.</p><p>The wool jacket, leather armour, linen shirt and yarn tunic didn't quite stop her claws, but enough so not to die. He had been healing for two days now, and it didn't bother him anymore. He was only angered at the fact that he had been slashed in his leg in an attempt to check whether Jaskier stood far away from their fight and, in return, the bard hadn’t even come closer from wherever he was miraculously hiding. That was rude. Even by Geralt’s standards, that was ungratefully impolite.</p><p>He was growing tired of the subtle sounds at his back that snapped him away from meditation, from peace on the Road. Jaskier played with the strap of his lute, kicked at the snow, caressed every tree, pushed and pulled at his fingers. Hell, he had even started writing down on his leather-bound notebook while his pace never faltered. Right after witnessing the fight, what a coincidence.</p><p>Rude, very rude.</p><p>Geralt had only one question worth asking. For how long? How long until the bard tucked his tail between his legs and went back to the comforts of civilization? Ard Carraigh, capital of Kaedwen, was still within reach. A few days heading back would do it. He wanted to know not because he cared where Jaskier ended up or if he got into trouble on his own, but because where he was going, the bard couldn’t follow. Not to Kaer Morhen.</p><p>Of course, he expected the man to try his best to sneak in and sooner or later, even if out of pity or mercy, Geralt would have to outright tell him to go back. He doubted Vesemir would hold enough patience in his old age to ask a prying nobody to step away from his ruins, his home. The one thing the Wolves still had, even as it crumbled apart much like Witchering itself.</p><p>After a week, when the mountains were still on the horizon but one could make out the overall shapes of the treacherous path up and through them, he noticed Jaskier carried a surprising amount of supplies with him. He had known the bard to trust his voice and his charm to keep him safe and sound every day. With cornflower-blue eyes and pretty pink lips, he found his wicked ways to food, shelter and warmth.</p><p>Shelter he carried not, but his jacket smelt like money even from a hundred yards away. It must have been stuffed with at least the wool of three seeps, kept tightly packed by the finest fabrics and covered in fine black embroidery. Geralt had a worn-down simple coat that felt paper-thin and his leather was colder than that wyvern’s corpse, wherever it had ended up. His indignation twisted into poorly contained fury when he caught a sniff of Jaskier’s food, who inched closer everyday.</p><p>He knew, from a logical point of view, that as weak as the man looked he was both as tall as Geralt and well, a man. A mortal. He had to eat. Still, he wasn’t paying the closest attention to him he could. Maybe that was his effort at telling him he was unwelcomed. Maybe he knew if he turned back to steal a glance at those puppy eyes, he’d cave in. Vesemir had little patience for strangers. He had none for his pupils. No, Geralt couldn’t turn around just yet.</p><p>So yes, he was furious. Furious when he figured that Jaskier wasn’t only carrying nearly as much as poor innocent Roach, but that he had bread buns, still somewhat tender, granola bars of honey and nuts, pouches of dried apricots and raisins. For fuck’s sake, he still hadn’t run out of wine. Wine! Geralt had to drink from the river, cold enough to freeze his bones and tasting of sulphur. And as they still made their way out of the barren land and onto the forests of the mountain, he was starting to get a toothache from munching on meat straps.</p><p>But the worst came as they arrived at the forest, at the mountains, and Geralt started to feel like he should just punch Jaskier all the way back to the tavern he had crawled out of, even if it meant having to go up the road again. Kaer Morhen would still be there, anyway.</p><p>There were bandits among the trees. And they weren’t passing by, oh, no. They had made their home there. That told Geralt two things; first, the war brought out all kinds of monsters, and two, he was indeed the first to head back home. Apparently, it told Jaskier nothing, for he still walked right beside Geralt, now twenty yards behind. At least he had the common sense to quicken his pace.</p><p>There was a bandit girl sitting by the fire with two other men, with hair the colour of chocolate and curls dense like the trees’ tops. Golden eyes made an effort not to stray from the trees but the broach in his hilt weighted more than the very sword. As he came closer to them, and so did his two swords and his armour, they expectedly rose up to meet him.</p><p>It may seem, to the untrained eye, that any way up the mountain was, by design and simply put, a way up the mountain. To a Witcher, any trail but the right one was only a trip to the afterlife. Vesemir had taught them early on to respect the nature that guarded the keep and Geralt, as much as he found himself bound to repeat his mistakes, wasn’t eager to die stupidly. He had to walk past them and find his snow-covered boots standing on top of well-known grounds.</p><p>He eyed them cautiously and held the reins tight in his hand. The closer he got, the more he could sense their fear. They must have known at the feet of which mountain they sat since his hood covered his face and yet, they didn’t seem to be interested in fighting him. In fact, they parted ways as he walked through the trio. Their hands were loosely curled around their weapons but the girl only eyed him curiously and the young man, twice stupid by time and nature, puffed out his chest and glared. The older man took a step back.</p><p>Geralt walked past them and gently pushed Roach up the narrow path by a pat to her rear. The obedient mare neighed and trotted up the small slope and continued in the only direction she could go. The Witcher felt he ought to quick his pace. Jaskier was careless, emotion-driven and prone to let his thoughts leave him unfiltered, but not suicidal. If there was a chance to leave him behind, it was now. Surely, he wouldn’t merrily try and walk past armed bandits - thieves, murderers for all he knew.</p><p>And he didn’t. He didn’t try to follow Geralt merrily. He did it with a gulp, one hand tightened around the strap of his lute and the other pressing his huge heavy bag against his belly. The girl hadn’t curiosity for him, only lust. A desire for that which wasn’t hers, but could be. And the men, both the young and the old, agreed, if their drawn swords were anything to go by. Jaskier made a feeble effort to befriend them, a shy waving of a hand, but Geralt could feel his panicked eyes locked into his back as he pushed Roach on.</p><p>Geralt frowned, his lips turned into a tight line and a hand flew to his forehead. This had nothing to do with the greater or the lesser evil. This had to do with assholes piling at his doorstep. Vesemir would have his head if Eskel or Lambert arrived to find a bard’s corpse and a bandit girl in an expensive jacket, eating bagels and drinking wine. He had a duty with Kaer Morhen. He had made the promise to hunt monsters. To protect men. Jaskier, a scoundrel, a petticoat chaser, a buffoon, was still a man.</p><p>      "Hello, my good compatriots. What a lovely camp you’ve got going on."</p><p>       "It is." -said the girl. Her smile lacked a few teeth and the warmth it should have for a girl that young- "It gets quite cold at night, though."</p><p>       "Yes, it does. So cold, compatriot." -laughed the youngest. Geralt halted his steps and urged Roach on with a gentle push. He had to make a choice quick, once again. He hated to. It never came out right.</p><p>        "It would only be fair that you showed mercy to me, a halfling. The war has not." -the oldest circled Jaskier and the bard could only take a hesitant step closer to them until he was standing close enough to the fire to catch it on his quality boots by accident.- "Give us your coat and you can go."</p><p>        "My coat? But, it’s so cold." -Jaskier frowned. Geralt still didn’t turn around but he listened closely to the way the girl came up to Jaskier. His frightened gasp spoke of a blade to the neck- "M-my coat, sure. Of course, please put that away. I’ll give it to you."</p><p>        "Enough. -Geralt growled. All eyes turned to him, so he turned to them. The man was wary, the boy was already pointing his sword at him and the girl... she still seemed to be making his choice, as was Geralt- "He’ll die without his coat, take something else and leave."</p><p>        "What is it to you, Witcher? Go to your castle and leave us be."</p><p>        "I said no. And you must leave. More Witchers will come, and they won’t show mercy."</p><p>        "We don’t need the mercy of a bloody mutant." -the youngest spat onto him, further dirtying his boots.</p><p>Geralt’s glare hardened and he pointedly ignored the way Jaskier looked up at him with fear in his eyes. There was, as guessed, a blade to his throat and a pretty girl right behind him now, a dirty hand holding tight to the boorish hilt. She could have killed Jaskier already. Many would have. But she hadn’t.</p><p>       "Steve, leave the Witcher be. We can’t defeat him. We’ll take something else, what about medicines? Do you have anything for burns, bard?"-the girl spoke softly and the gap in his teeth made a whistling sound.</p><p>The old halfling sheathed his sword slowly, but the young man charged on with a roar, with a death wish. Geralt turned his wrist gracefully, the sharp edge sliding against the velvet of the scabbard and silently unsheathed, the sword drew three strokes, breaking through the cold morning air.</p><p>First, the boy continued forward, still unaware of his tragedy. His arm, however, cut at the level of the forearm, was already falling to the ground. The sword barely made a noise against the snow. The other arm followed, neatly separated at the shoulder at a perfect angle where the rusty old armour did not cover him. And in the third cut, his head met the snow accompanied by the young woman's scream and Jaskier's terrified gaze. The bard vomited, effectively putting out the fire, and the woman fell into her ass as she stumbled backwards.</p><p>She ran for her life. The old man crossed himself, murmured a poorly pronounced elven blessing and followed after her. Jaskier’s knees met the cold hard floor and he let out the last of his bagels and dried fruits, now turned into viscous green puke.</p><p>       "Th-thank you." -he barely murmured, spitting on the floor to lessen the acidic taste on his tongue- "Thank you, Geralt."</p><p>       "Go back. Now. Kaer Morhen is no place for a bard."</p><p>He turned around once more, cleaned his sword on his coat and put it away so as he walked on and joined Roach again, he could also put away - at last! - his concerns with that blue-eyed lost puppy, unwelcomed tag along. But Jaskier was quick to rise to his feet and stumble behind him, using the mountainside for leverage as they took the steep path upwards. He made a point of not looking down to certain death.</p><p>      "I can’t."</p><p>      "You can."</p><p>      "I swear I cannot." -Jaskier insists.</p><p>      "Find the way. Ration your food, drink from the river and follow it. You will see the capital in the distance eventually."</p><p>      "I only have two pouches of fruit left. The bread is bloody frozen. And I hate granola."</p><p>      "Then make even smaller rations. Hunt for food if you have to."</p><p>      "Hunt? With what? A lute?" -Jaskier spat in frustrated disbelief, burrowing deep into his coat as the winds got much colder with the height. Geralt knew he was right, but that was all he knew of the problem. As per usual, the solution evaded him. Jaskier kept talking;</p><p>      "If I go back now, I’ll only die. The lands before the mountain are barren and it’s been snowing for days now. The river is nearly frozen. There are dragons! Geralt! Dragons."</p><p>      "It wasn’t a dragon, it was a wyvern.They’re territorial. There won’t be more." -Geralt fought back on what he could, even if pointlessly.</p><p>They took many sharp turns here and there, bending down to pass through recesses, dodging branches, crawling down small but very steep slopes and dropping down others. Soon enough, Jaskier couldn’t come back even if he tried. The silence was growing tense as Geralt waited for the bard to resign and turn around and Jaskier refused to, for unspoken reasons. He had been here before, with the sylvan and the elves, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to shake him off now either.</p><p>When the sun fell on the horizon, through miracle or sheer luck, Jaskier hadn’t fallen off the path down a certain death against the foam of the furious river and the slabs of ice that floated on it.<br/>His quick feet hadn't taken a wrong step on the chain bridge that was barely dangling, rather more so falling apart and hooked on unreliable rocks. Vesemir would make them fix that, Geralt would make sure of it, or next year not a soul would reach Kaer Morhen.</p><p>Jaskier didn’t say a word, didn’t utter a complaint, not even a huff, when Geralt walked through a net of rivulets cold enough to make Roach neigh in distress. The bard only rolled up his pants as best he could and resigned himself to the sacrifice of his boots. Being positive, the hardened mud would perhaps help him against the cold. He barely felt his feet and had a feeling that wouldn’t change soon.</p><p>He had half a mind to stop on his own, as suicidal as that was, because he felt like he’d die anyway if he kept walking. The soles of his feet were covered in blisters of impressive size, even as he had made sure to carry proper footwear. Half a month of walking from sunrise past sunfall were to be thanked for that.</p><p>Most importantly, he was tired beyond what his mind could even process, probably. He needed a decent sleep, one he wasn’t getting with his back laying on frozen grounds that his bedroll couldn’t shield him against well enough. Not when he had to keep an eye open in case Geralt tried to sneak away in the middle of the night. The Witcher had tried, of course, only to be publicly ashamed in the eyes of the mud and the frost as Jaskier jumped to his feet to follow him again. The glare those golden eyes had shot him could have frozen him in place, if the winter hadn’t already.</p><p>He prayed silently to whichever God kept over the mountain, if any did, that Geralt found a reason to sit down for the remainder of the day. If only for Roach. He could count the stars already, shining timid between where purple and orange fought at the sky.</p><p>The rivulets cursed through a small deserted plain, steep as it was, exposed, a suicide in the freezing night, and yet a little higher up, a nook awaited. On the side of the mountain, the nook would allow the fire to grow without having to fight against snow and wind. It would let Jaskier warm his hands, unfreeze his bread and fill his empty stomach.</p><p>The choice, however, was made by Destiny, not Geralt, as per usual with anything that brought awful consequences. Oh Geralt was bitter. The beard was not enough to protect himself from the cold and the hood was blown off at every turn by the wind. His shitty boots were soaked through the water and although they would soon dry up, and although it was designed to withstand the elements of the wild, the cold bit him just the same.</p><p>He had expected to camp on the forest path, the one that awaited him at the end of the treacherous hidden way up. He would spend the night fasting, but getting a well-deserved rest, and at dawn he would hunt. Then, he’d have two days of relative ease until he came across three fallen trees. There, he’d have to climb the mountain side, lower a hidden bridge so Roach might cross to the other side of the mountain and get back on the treacherous way for way more days that he wanted to think about now.</p><p>But of course, with a stowaway stuck to his ass, not even Geralt of Rivia could quicken his pace and leave him behind in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of a grave of blue stones and a white cloak.</p><p>The howling wind was cut through by an arrow that had Jaskier jumping out of his skin and tripping over. Another follow, and another. Jaskier took a leap, nearly falling down the edge, and hid behind the broad back of the Witcher.</p><p>Geralt was quick to reach for the reins of Roach, who reared up on her hind legs. The arrows came from above and that’s where his golden eyes turned to look. Above their heads at least twelve bandits crouched, lying on the snow, their hunting bows leaning over the edge of the path that Geralt had hoped to have left behind by sunfall.</p><p>A big man stood up and a horn rested on his waist. Geralt growled under his breath at the sight of his breastplate and the unicorn on it. They were not bandits, it was a shredded war party left to their own devices. Fugitives, with nothing to lose.</p><p>         "Witcher, the keep might be yours but this mountain, this path, is ours -he yelled from above to be heard through the wind.</p><p>Geralt waited, tried to shrug off the clenching fists at his back but Jaskier didn’t let go, only pressed his forehead against the back and hid his face under the hood.</p><p>        "We don’t want to kill you, but we will."</p><p>        "Yeah, no shit?" -Jaskier snapped, coming out of his hiding spot to hiss like a wet cat but still short of breath- "The arrows told us that, you fucking lunatic. I could have fallen!"</p><p>        "Bard." -Geralt growled a warning and with his hand pushed the man away roughly. Then he looked up and pondered his options.-            "We wish only to get to Kaer Morhen."</p><p>        "Tell us why, then, my brother hasn’t come back!" - a voice hoarse by spilled tears screamed back and as another arrow was drawn, Geralt followed the faint noise of the tensed bow, the subtle movement against the snow. It was a young boy with trembling hands but a glare set in stone.</p><p>        "Your brother attacked him first! Geralt had nothing to do with that." -Jaskier pushed away the hand that held him back behind the Witcher and stood in front of the white-haired man, shielding him and trying to find who had spoken- "Now let us pass, the war is over."</p><p>Roaring laughter erupted from the soldiers; they laughed until Jaskier turned red with shame, with pursed lips and wide eyes. He crossed his arms and huffed but found nothing to say. Geralt studied them carefully. Only three bows, now not even pointing their way save for the kid, and he could quickly count around twelve arrows on his quiver.</p><p>This wasn’t a battle Geralt could win. There was barely enough space for them between the rivulets and the nook to stand on guard comfortably and even if by unsheathing his sword he didn’t get pierced by an arrowhead, what was he supposed to do? They were out of reach and he wasn’t Eskel. He didn’t fight hordes with signs and on the path to Kaer Morhen, every ounce of wasted energy was a gamble.</p><p>         "Well, Witcher, I hope you have more common sense than your friend over there." -their spokesman said, leaning on his spear, a sharpened pole made out of Kaedwen’s war banner- "This is simple. You throw your money our way, we let you and you friend go on."</p><p>         "I fear what I have won’t satisfy you." -Geralt answered honestly.</p><p>         "Don’t lie to us!" -the man growled- "Monsters grow like weeds in times of war."</p><p>War also gave way to the sight of orphans’ hunger, widows’ grief and hanged men. But he didn’t need to tell them that, they already knew. Maybe if he had told them how he dreaded it, how it made him drink more so his vision would blur and he had an excuse for the pain in his stomach, maybe their story would have had a happy ending. The man raised a hand covered in a gauntlet and with the sign, three arrows were knocked.</p><p>         "I have ten ducats and fifty crowns."</p><p>         "Only that?" -the man frowned, hand still held high in the air.</p><p>The soldiers that weren’t archers slowly stood up, shook off the snow and Jaskier shuddered at their coldhearted stare, their apathy. Their strength. Mute at the sight of their wounds, he could only breath deep and stand his ground in between them and Geralt. He felt as if maybe he should look away from their scorched faces, from melted skin and burnt flesh. From terrible scars and the knowledge that those were the ones left standing of their war party. Those were the ones Jaskier stood up against. But he didn’t take a step back.</p><p>         "I told you, I don’t have much. I am a man on his way back home after the war. We all should be."</p><p>         "We have no home to go back to." -the young man said with a broken voice and the arrowhead pointed to the Witcher. Geralt clenched his jaw but he didn’t look away- "Now thanks to you I don’t even have a family."</p><p>          "Don’t let him fool you. This is not about feelings, Witcher. This is about duty. We want to go home, but we ran away when they told us to protect it. We’ll have to pay for forgiveness."</p><p>          "It won’t be cheap." -Geralt nodded- "But I still don’t have coin to spare."</p><p>           "I do." -the arrows moved to Jaskier, as did all attention.- "Tell me, is it true? Are you those soldiers that they used as bait?"</p><p>           "So what if we are?" -said one of them, looking down from the edge.</p><p>Geralt studied their every move. Most turned their faces, closed their eyes in shame and in the darkness of their closed lids, remembered their demons. Their commander placed a gentle hand on the man who had spoken, to bring his tremblings to a cease. Fear was a powerful curse.</p><p>            "They say you were to keep some caravans safe and carry food and supplies south, but that the caravans were empty and the path led to an ambush. The stories… they aren’t very detailed, but your wounds say enough. I have salve too. Bandages if needed."</p><p>            "Why?"</p><p>            "Because it’s what I can give and because it’s fair. Geralt can’t help you in the ways you need but he… he is a good man. He killed the wyvern, so now the path back is safe. You have missed the wedding, though."</p><p>            "Samantha?" -a man whose matte white cheekbone protruded where the skin had not yet closed rushed to the edge, knelt by it to be heard more easily- "Is my dear daughter alright? Please, please, tell me, bard."</p><p>            "She’s happy and safe, sir. She wore the blue scarf you gifted her in spring when the war began. She still waits for your return and prays every day." -Jaskier answered.</p><p>Geralt knew by the sad smile that his words weren’t a lie and somehow, he hated that the bard knew of such things. Wasn’t he better off oblivious and joyful? What gave him the right to stand like a shield? To care like a friend about nameless people? Jaskier gestured to the road ahead, the one that would take them to the soldiers.</p><p>            "Let us meet. We can share, then we can each be on our way. I insist the war is over."</p><p>There was no laughter this time, only silence. Silence filled with understanding, with a second chance at life. Jaskier had a way with words that brought to the surface unwanted truths. He weaved heroics and heartbreak around his finger and somehow, even as he sang of the end of the world, he made it sound like a hopeful ending.</p><p>            "Don’t be mistaken, young man." -said their commander and yet, his hand lowered. Geralt didn’t tear his gaze from the boy and the way he was baring his teeth to him, unwilling to let go of his revenge- "We are not brave, noble warriors. We are lonely, scared and hungry men. We’ll take what we need and then we’ll fuck off. Whether or not what we need is what you need as well, is not our problem. You can rot for all I care."</p><p>            "I see what war does to men" -Jaskier noded- "If this is the way things must be, at least I’ll live."</p><p>            "Maybe you will." -he turned to glare at the only one of his men that still laid on the ground, leaning on the edge- "Kid, don’t you dare fire, you hear me? Don’t give the Witcher a reason to kill us."</p><p>Geralt let that be the last words they’d exchange from across the distance and followed Jaskier to the war party. The bard, with firm steps as if the mountain was his, led Roach to their meeting by relentlessly braving against every sharp stone, every blow of the wind and left behind his chance at a rest in the nook.</p><p>When they got up there, Geralt let Roach linger behind him, where she was, hopefully, out of harm's way. His fingers itched for his sword and he knew that unsettling feeling at the pit of his stomach, at the arch of his lungs. He was a predator, a hunter, a killer. And yet, here he was prey. He should have known how these things ended by now. He should have known that war birthed many man-skinned monsters, with wedded daughters, dead brothers. Still, he watched as Jaskier, both careless and careful in the ways only an experienced fool could be, opened his bag with all his good intentions, entering the tight circle of man with swords and arrows.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Shorter chapter, to set the action in motion. Feel free to comment on what you'd like to see as this is a fully self-indulgent creation where I just want to unleash my imagination in an attempt of building a feasible way this could happen. And write fluff and smut, humour and action, of course. But that goes unsaid when these characters are on screen. </p><p>I've never posted before nor is this my mother language, so bear with me while I learn how AO3 works.</p><p>At the end, you may read what I have planned for the foreseeable future for this fic. Please tell me what you think. Or stay away from those "pseudo-spoilers"</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Five hundred crowns. A thousand ducats. Raw honey and oil kept together by beeswax, as a salve. A few other bottles, with a few other remedies. A rope. His food, from the frozen bagels to the dried fruits. Not the granola. Nobody was ever hungry enough for that. But everything else noted of worth, the soldiers took from Jaskier’s generous hands. Geralt glared, frowned, even growled when the commander smugly searched around the bag and carelessly tossed away the notebook the bard deeply cherished. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t fair. They all knew. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier, surprising Geralt, said nothing. He grinded his teeth, closed his fists until the Witcher could tell a faint smell of blood. Blue eyes only looked away, past the man who wasn’t at all being fair in his taking. Geralt had expected Jaskier to be gullible, to anticipate a drastic change in the attitude of these lesser men, but he had underestimated him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If anything, Jaskier had been the one to play them like his lute’s chords, get them to agree to meet civilly and not turn them into strainers just to get what could easily be surrendered over. Geralt, unwilling to hand over too much credit, assured himself that cowards always lived long. Especially silver-tongued ones. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t being fair. He knew. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Around them, the soldiers had shrunk the circle enough that Geralt was nearly front-to-back with Jaskier. They weighted their swords in their hands. Fingertips teased around the tip of the arrowheads. Arrogant smiles. Head tilts of vanity. But Geralt was worried about the youngest of them, the one still twirling an arrow in his hand and the one not to salivate at the sight of food. He was too busy glaring at the Witcher to see. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the end, the commander whistled. The kid spat at Geralt’s feet and he really seemed like he didn’t want to go, but he obeyed. When they broke their circle and started walking away like a pack of satisfied hyenas, all that Jaskier had left were his clothes, his lute, a bedroll, his empty wineskin and a sullied notebook. He would die, Geralt realized. On his own, he would. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier, unpromptedly, silently, trusted him. He had, by all means, put his own life on the line for the sake of them both. That, just that, was the greatest unfairness laid bare in the eyes of the gods, right there and then. To trust him, Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, to show mercy to a bard nobody would miss, up in a mountain where resources were scarce and without having shown a single sign of </span>
  <span>goodwill to the bard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "It’s fine."-he said when the others were out of ear’s reach- "It’s time I learn to appreciate granola, anyway. And snow counts as water, right? I’ll be fine." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wouldn’t be. Of course he wouldn’t! Jaskier was, in a way, forcing his hand. At the same time, with blue eyes that shone with tears of frustration as he patted the notebook clean, he didn’t say anything else. Not a word, not a single inculpating remark. A silent bard, what a joke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence was cut abruptly. A sharp whistle. A sharper arrow. Geralt heard it in time to turn away his back and in doing so, it pierced through cloak and armour. Pain bolted through him and his hand rushed to his arm to lessen the pain in vain. There was the kid, staring at him with feral eyes and preparing another arrow right there where trees sheltered the curved way down, too close not to miss. Too close for the leather to do much at all.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "Geralt!" -Jaskier yelled, rushing towards him but his foot landed on the unsettled snow of the edge and he slipped off with a quiet gasp of shock as the mountain’s ground disappeared from under him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With his eyes opening wide and hands reaching for something to hold onto, he screamed at the top of his lungs and Geralt reached back. Their hands clasped together and the weight pulled from his arm and made the arrow tear deeper into the muscle. He groaned in pain but didn’t let go. Geralt went to his knees, crashing hard against the ground, heard the bow tensing just as he pressed his other hand against the edge of the mountain and tried to haul Jaskier up. The bard had gone white as bone, his tears spilled down his cheeks and the notebook fell from his hand as he let go to hold to Geralt’s wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The arrow flew across the very short distance and another grunt of paint met its impact against his leg. If he was an optimist, he’d thank whoever had taught that child to shoot so poorly. But Geralt wasn’t an optimist, he was a wounded, hungry, furious Witcher. Roach neighed, buckled and placed herself between the boy and her owner. She stomped her foot and shook her head fiercely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "Touch her..." -Geralt shouted, he couldn’t get good leverage to pull Jaskier up and the bard had started muttering prayers left and right- "...and I swear I will skin you alive!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Roach didn’t move an inch. Instead, she braved on, shaking her head as if to push the young man back. The arrow didn’t frighten her, she had barreled through ghoul-infested swamps, headbutted a kikimora and bucked an Alp straight to the jaw. She did, however, frighten the boy who with tear-filled eyes spat on the floor, growled a curse and rushed down the trail. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "Geralt, Geralt, for the love of… Melitele’s tits!" -Jaskier yelped when the snow gave in a little and the Witcher barely managed to keep his ground by digging his heels into the ground and pushing back with his bodyweight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bounced and tried to coil like upwards, to the edge where Geralt was barely standing as the snow slowly crumbled away. His now forcefully-free hand reached for Jaskier too. Still, the swinging body of the bard made it harder to hold on. The arrowheads burrowed deeper, tore at the skin and meat like a dull knife’s edge. Blood, disgustingly warm, dribbled down the layers of armour. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt grunted with the effort, breathed in deep and pulled with all his strength as he screamed to summon courage. He could feel it, his skin breaching, his leg being torn open by the way the arrow had pierced through it as he kept pushing up and up, against his heels. His roar of pain echoed in the mountains but at last, Jaskier could lay his torso against the edge and he quickly wiggled his way up, letting go of Geralt who collapsed against the frozen ground like a deadweight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "I am going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>butcher </span>
  </em>
  <span>that </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking BRAT! "</span>
  </em>
  <span>-he yelled to the stone wall with all the fury of a breathless dandy bard. He turned around towards the void, to search for a mop of yellow hair and a bow. Geralt gripped at his cloak to keep him from the edge but he missed, the world was spinning, blurring. The sunset was too bright- "Do you hear me, you little shit?! I will have you for </span>
  <em>
    <span>dinner!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he screamed at the top of his lungs one last time, feeling the sweat plaster his hair to his head and cool his skin and finally dropped to the floor like a fish, with a hand to his heaving chest. He turned his head to look at Geralt but those golden eyes were unfocused, blinking slowly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "Geralt, oh, gods, Geralt. Geralt, stay with me." -Jaskier crawled over to him and his fluttering hands hesitated to do anything. He kept calling out to the man but his lids were slowly closing.- "No, no, no, come on. You can’t die. You have to help me." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He brushed the white hairs off his face, swallowed hard, and mustered up the courage to look at the wound. In the arm, thanks to the leather, it was not as deep as it was scandalous, although for a swordsman, it was quite a risk. Worst of all, there was no way to get the arrow out without ripping through the arm and causing even worse bleeding. He searched for an answer in Geralt’s face but his frown was slowly fading away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "No, you can’t have bled out yet! Geralt!" -then he muttered to himself- "It’s fine, it’s the shock, it’s the shock. He’s just tired, that’s normal. Sleep, yes, sleep. And maybe that way you won’t kill me." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In a poor attempt at calming down, the bard followed some of his acting techniques for relaxation, comically letting out “uhs” and “ah, ah, ah” like a spirit of the wind had frolicked with a small, snub-nosed dog and given birth to Jaskier. Roach nudged at him and whinnied for attention.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "Not now, Roach!" -he pushed her snout away. She neighed and reared up slightly then pushed at him again.- "What?! I’m thinking!" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> He turned his head away from the wound he was trying to examine even as the armour wouldn’t let him see much at all. She pointed repeatedly a little far off, over there by the edge. Jaskier saw the glint of the blade and jumped onto his feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "Yes! Roach, you’re a genius!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rushed over to his pocket knife, the one he carried for his correspondence, then quickly kneeled by Geralt again. Paling by the second, his forehead beaded with sweat, he seemed to have fallen into a light sleep. Jaskier stilled a breath and with a shaking hand brought the sharp point of it to the edge between the torn leather and the arrow. He pinched at the leather and cut through it so he might pull it back to reveal the wound. His “uhs” and “ah, ah, ah” did little to prepare him for the amount of blood. It downright poured like a fountain, gushing from the wound and painting all skin red. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The more leather he cut through and tucked inwards, so as to keep it out of the way, the more he got used to it. Didn’t mean his hand wasn’t shaking as he brought the blade to the skin. He tried not to cut too deep, but it was hard to tell as blood pooled and he had no way of telling if he was doing it in the right way or in the right place. With two slashes in the opposite direction, he pulled perpendicularly at the edges to pry the wound open around the arrowhead. It was pure terror that kept him from puking at the sight of torn muscle. He was glad that blood quickly filled the gap and wondered how worse it would be if the man hadn’t the heart rate of a Witcher.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        "On the count to three, Geralt, I will pull. I think it will come out clean. I hope. "</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He let the pocket knife rest on his lap and gripped the wooden shaft tight. Roach neighed in distress and pointedly looked away, but Jaskier couldn’t. He pulled hard, the opposite way the arrow had gone in and pulled it free. A spray of fresh blood erupted, painted his face like a savage’s warpaint and Jaskier quickly placed his hands over it and pressed hard. The pain woke Geralt who roared in pain and arched his back but otherwise kept still, with eyes opened wide. He seemed to take the world in for a second, watching everything in a delirious state. His gaze followed the droplets of blood in Jaskier’s face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>         "Geralt, oh, I am so grateful" -he reached out with a blood-covered hand to the sweat-covered face and gently felt the increasing temperature of his skin. Geralt wasn’t listening, the world was a blur of muted colours, speckles of black and hurting lights- "I am so sorry, truly. Stay with me, please."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watched the focus leave those golden cat eyes again as they closed. Geralt’s body lost all tension and his head lolled to the side, resting against Jaskier’s palm. The bard blinked away tears he didn’t know he had been holding, shook his head and rolled his shoulders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>          "Fuck war. Fuck Kaedwen. Fuck that brat and his bow and these fucking mountains." -he started whispering in rushed breaths, wiping his hands in his cloak with fast harsh motions. He took it off to move more freely and stood to pull Geralt away from the edge- Fuck this arrow, that arrow, all arrows. Fuck the Earl and my family name.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier kept cursing as he sat down close to the leg and his eyes frantically tried to make sense out of the mess, find a cue. If he babbled out loud, his mind could stay quiet enough to think. He knew that. All he had to do was ignore the way sweat pearled at his neck, the way his breathings were too shallow and his chest heaved, the dry throat. The blood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So much blood. So warm in the winter it made the snow melt around it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, don’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not the blood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Flowers, yes, flowers. Roses, poppies, peonies. The blade went through the layers of cotton and linen, freeing the leg enough to see. He doesn’t want to see. He trembles. Anemone. Blue iris. Camellia. The cold. His panting breath in front of his eyes like little spectres. Is Geralt breathing? </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>He checks. It’s soft, barely there, but he breathes. Chrysanthemum, Daffodil.</span> <span>Flowers. Meaningful flowers. The blood has made a puddle. Idiot. Idiot. </span><em><span>Idiot</span></em><span>. Jaskier pulls a scarf from the bag, wraps it tight around the wound. It’s clumsy. It’s working. Daisies. Larkspur. </span><em><span>The leg, I have to… leg, leg, leg. </span></em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He goes back, he sees what he doesn’t want to see. The arrow has pierced through the leg and the pulling, the pulling, the pulling has made it tear through it. From the middle tight nearly down the knee. It’s too much. Too much. Orchid. Peony. It’s nasty, it’s big. It shouldn’t be possible. It’s deadly, isn’t it? Jaskier killed him. Rue. Rues, for sorrow and repentance. Pressed against the ground, to save Jaskier, but who saves Geralt? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me. I. I save Geralt. Geralt. Geralt. Please, Geralt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Zinnia. Sunflowers. Flowers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flowers for Geralt’s grave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. No, no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds to it with both hands, he doesn’t think he just pries with all his might. He has to snap it. Tears run a marathon against beads of sweat down his face. Hydrangea, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>gratitude, amends, understanding</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt will understand. I have to.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Geralt whines when it breaks, splinters jump, Jaskier too. He can’t think much, he’s tired. The world is tight, it’s crumbling on him. The night is cold, the wind’s too loud. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why is Geralt so quiet? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please, please, please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His fingers, his beloved musician fingers, grip tight around the arrowhead and let it bite. Let it hurt. Pain. Pain makes him focus. He pulls again. Like unsheathing a sword. Blood pours. Streams, like Gwellenchen river but red, so red. Much warmer. He throws the two arrow parts to the void and the mountain eats it, takes it away. The mountain, the earth, the soil takes all, eventually. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My fear, my fear, take my fear. Take me. Leave him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cornflower blue meets golden as the stars crawl high above them inch by inch. He must finish before the day does. Light. He needs light, to sew. Geralt nods like Jaskier has said something. Is he speaking out loud still? He can’t hear anything past the ringing in his ears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Needle. I have needles. Needle and thread and salve. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But they took the salves. They took everything. They took Jaskier’s breath. Geralt’s life. Jaskier will kill them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Slaughter them. I will. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A hand holds onto his trembling one, among the cold snow, it’s even colder. Golden eyes are closing. His skin is too white. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not kill. Save. Save Geralt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He works in a rush, a twirl, chaos. He sews to the rhythm of his pounding heart. His fingers have wounds of their own and as they flex, it hurts. But the pain is not needed anymore. He blinks away the tears. To see. He has to see, he has to do this. He’s fine. It’s fine. He cradles himself back and forth. He talks louder than the ringing in his ear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He sews the last stitch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurel. For victory. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier dropped to the ground in exhaustion but didn’t give up just yet. He crawled his way towards Geralt as the dizziness made him blink slowly, quieting his mind at last. He pulled at the cloak and covered them both with it. His embrace was gentle, meant to keep them warm as the night took over. He couldn’t do much else, he was just a bard. Roach, perhaps, thought so too. She laid down by their side and shielded them from the wind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t know there was Hanged Man’s venom in the arrows, the potent kind that stray sorceress would profit from at war. The kind that could hurt even a Witcher. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The following chapters will let you know what Jaskier is on about, how Geralt feels about this bard he just met a few months ago and let you follow them as they make sacrifices for the sake of surviving the way up. Maybe two chapters and they'll be at Kaer Morhen. <br/>If there's something you'd like to see (ex: huddling for warmth) in this "set up" let me know, and I'll see if it fits their relationship stage and the plot at this point.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A lullaby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I definitely have a problem as far as keeping things short goes.<br/>This chapter is not necessarily long, I just feel like a may add too many details? I think it slows down the energy. That it gets boring.<br/>What are your thoughts? I haven't written in years. Like... 10 years. </p><p>In any case, the next chapter will be up today or tomorrow.<br/>The song at the end is literally called Sleepsong.<br/>Thanks to everyone who reads, comments and hell, some of you even gave me ideas! You're<br/>the best.<br/>Special thanks to Superherogeek1 for teaching me how AO3 works.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Little Eye’s smile is warm. Warmer than the summer sun on their skin. Warmer than their shared wine. Her tales are hot like melted steel. She speaks of forging dreams. She’s a dreamer, a fighter. Jaskier loves her. But she’s screaming. They’re taking her. There’s a sun on their breastplates, sixteen rays in their banners, but it’s not warm. </p><p>       Jaskier shivered, terrified. Kicked around in his sleep. There was a neigh in the distance of his dream, muted and echoing. </p><p>       Their laugh is cold. Their steel is frozen. Little Eye runs but Jaskier runs faster. He didn’t mean to leave her behind. It’s so, so cold when the night falls. He’s lost. Why is it so cold? When did the moon appear? Something’s pushing him. His face is suddenly wet with tears and the wind’s howling in his ears. It’s too much.</p><p>       He woke up with a gasp, a hand to his chest and for a moment, he just looked at rounded brown eyes, Roach’s eyes, with confusion. The wind still howled.</p><p>      “Little Eye.” -he whispered. </p><p>       Jaskier heard the last of her loud laughs fade in his mind as if it were echoing between mountains’ peaks. He brought a shaking hand to his face, still staring at the mare. His cheeks were wet, indeed. With saliva.</p><p>      “For fuck’s sake Roach, that’s disgusting!”</p><p>       He wiped at his cheek with the cuff of his doublet and his neck nearly snapped when he heard a soft grunt of pain. Geralt. He was over there, curled under the gigantic coat. Jaskier could see him shake with the cold and was surprised himself that he had rolled off on his sleep. He was more glad than surprised at the fact that he hadn’t roll over in the wrong direction. A glance at the void made him shiver harder.</p><p>       He leaned against the harsh wall of the mountain to get up. His hands, nearly ice floes, reminded him without a hint of kindness that his gloves awaited him in the pockets of his coat. Leave it to him to forget about the basics of survival.</p><p>       The full moon gave him enough light to move tentatively toward the lump in the snow that was Geralt. It felt like walking on needles, like cactus grew at the tips of his fingers, from within.</p><p>
  <em>        Damn, how many hours have I slept? </em>
</p><p>       At least it wasn't snowing, implying an empty cloud sky. He would need the light if he was to find a place to hide. A look to the sky told him he hadn’t slept for long. A shake of the legs, a roll of shoulders, and he felt as ready to go as he was going to. Which was to say, not ready at all. Fuck, it hurt to move.</p><p>       He found it difficult to choose a prayer to show his gratitude when he saw that Geralt was not only alive but, in fact, seemed to be enjoying a restful deep sleep in the heat granted by those many layers of cotton and thick loom that were not his, but that Jaskier was grateful to be able to lend him.</p><p>       He rubbed his hands over his arms and sniffed. The cold had already begun to affect him, but his heart, beating, prevented him from feeling it. Nightmares always made him fall out of bed and cold sweat was not his best friend at the moment.</p><p>       He put on his gloves and scanned the horizon. Jaskier knew these lands only from fables and tavern songs. Hell, he didn't even know much about mountains to begin with; he knew even less about icy mountains traversed by paths designed for witches. One thing was clear, staying out in the open for the rest of the night would only make them both sick.</p><p>       He decided not to try to wake Geralt up, not yet. Not when he was sleeping, even with a frown and a slightly pale face. To his knowledge, a Witcher's metabolism was beyond human capabilities. Surely if he let the man rest, he would soon be again glaring at him and trying to leave him behind.</p><p>       "Right, Roach?" he said in a slightly shaky voice "Watch him, okay? I'm going to light a fire in the nook we passed, and I'll be back. Do me the favour, and don't let him fall either."</p><p>       The mare nuzzled his arm and laid back down between Geralt and the edge of the tortuous path. As far as loyalty went, Roach was unparalleled. It stung a little. He should have stayed in between too, with Little Eye.</p><p>       Jaskier took his bag from the ground where it had been unceremoniously abandoned in the chaos of battle, if it could be called that. He felt with his fingertips for that edge unsewn, uneven, from where he pulled and revealed the tiny false bottom. As any wandering bard, his life, his soul and his belongings were made of many layers. Some days, he hated it. That day, he was grateful.</p><p>       In his left hand, he carried the small bag of amadou and in the right the lint. He kept them safe tucked inside his boot. With his now free hands, he carried his remaining courage. Carefully, his ass pressed to the snow and his knees out front, he made his way down the slope. There, in the sharp corner, the trees shadowed him and he could barely see, but with his hand pressed against the wet bluish rock, he managed to advance towards the streams, following their jingle.</p><p>       He walked step by step, always checking the firmness of the ground before planting his weight there, until he reached the edge of the trees that clung with strong roots to where the mountain showed pity. With the moonlight on his head, he looked at the path he had just passed.</p><p>       There were branches to spare laying there in the snow, but he couldn’t run the risk. Without taking his eyes off the ground, he crawled to the edge of the cliff talus slopes between the nook and the water. Where the streams fell down the wall, some dry-looking plants had grown in the cracks.</p><p>       Saxifraga cespitosa. Or another similar one, perhaps. It wasn’t as pretty as his books in Oxenfurt claimed it to be. That didn’t matter. It was small, easy to tear off… if you took your arm out to reach it. Jaskier almost felt sorry that it wouldn’t bloom when spring came, but if that feeble plant hang onto little cracks and defied death so bravely, then so could Jaskier.</p><p>       He glanced up, remembering the soldiers, those low-morale and mannered scoundrels, but the only thing that stuck out from the edge was Roach's head with expectant eyes.</p><p>       "Don't worry, don't move, I just need something dry. The snow has wet the branches and the trees are too high. It would be a shame to fall now, right?"</p><p>       She neighed her understanding and Jaskier swore to himself he’d never mock Geralt for talking with the mare again. Roach didn't stop watching out for him when Jaskier almost dropped half his body along the sharp edge, ignoring how the stone prodded at his sternum, cold and merciless through his clothes that felt paper-thin.</p><p>       His worries were reduced to collecting all the dry weed that he could reach with knife-sharp focus. If it had been snowing, he wasn’t sure what he’d have done. The gloves made him clumsy but by the time he was starting to get dizzy he had enough for a decent fire.</p><p>       The nook nearly forced him to his knees by the overwhelming delight of shelter, the satisfying quieting of the winds. On the dry, snowless ground of that hole in the mountain, which didn't count as a cave but was better than nothing, there were a few branches. God-sent branches, he was sure. A reward from that time he didn’t kill Valdo Marx for stealing his rhymes.</p><p>       Jaskier felt he could cry with joy. Just in case the tears froze halfway down his cheeks he tempered. He had to be quick. After all, no one as much as he wanted to go back to Geralt and the coat he had left behind.</p><p>       The bard, who was positively dumb, was relieved that the needles in his hands and feet had turned into a feeling of numbness running up his limbs. It would feel even better when those dried and stacked herbs caught fire.</p><p>       He left within his grasp a bundle of thin branches, conveniently split. He took off his gloves despite the cold that made him shiver. His thoughts wanted to stray, to wonder if Geralt had frozen out there with the fury of the wind.</p><p>       From his boot he took the bag and from the bag the small spongy strips. He strategically placed them in the undergrowth and then on the sticks piled in a teepee. His teeth were chattering, and between attempts to try to get a spark out of the flint, violent jolts startled him, chills of such calibre that they could be called  spasms.</p><p>       "Yes! Yes, dammit! Look Roach, look" he shouted with joy when he saw the small orange flame. With infinite love, he gently breathed life into it. Hungry, it devoured the tinder and caught the branches on fire in a matter of minutes under Jaskier's careful care.</p><p>       He ran like a maniac, towards the howling winds and away from the fire in hopes of leaving it unattended as little as possible. His mind was filled with doubts that luck would bless him again. He had hopes, for Geralt's sake, but above all, he had doubts.</p><p>       On all fours he climbed the slope. Trembling, he reached his starting point. Geralt. Geralt wasn’t moving. Not a single shiver. His face, perhaps for the first time since they had crossed paths, bore a rictus of absolute tranquillity. Roach tapped him gently with his nose, trying to wake him up.</p><p>       "No way! You, wake up, asshole!" He threw himself on the Witcher and planted his ear against his chest but there was no way to hear a heartbeat through the armour "Damn it, don't do this to me. Roach! Help me."</p><p>       With a whinny, the mare bent down and as still as a statue allowed Jaskier to place his rider in its proper place, his saddle. Without a hint of the sovereignty and presence that characterized Geral, there, leaning against the neck of his faithful companion like a dead weight, he was more dead than alive. He threw the coat on top of the man, covering him from head to toe.</p><p>       “You bloody idiot. Self-sacrificing douche!” he kept screaming, maybe his anger would wake him up. “Should’ve let go! It’s not that big of a fall! Don’t you dare die, you hear me?!”</p><p>       Helping Roach onwards, guiding her by the reins, he held his breath all the way down the steep slope. With a lute to his back, a bag on his front, he couldn’t reach for Geralt. He could only pray, more so threaten the gods in muffled breaths, that he didn’t slide off the saddle.</p><p>       Vertigo made him want to puke on an empty stomach as he took small steps backwards, unable to know for certain where he stepped. Was it firm snow? Or the gap in between some roots? His lip trembled due to fear. One wrong step, one too-fast step and it’d be over. With chattering teeth, he couldn’t be too careful, too slow. Time wasn’t on his favour.</p><p>       Luck, however, seemed to remain on his side. The fire still burnt bright. It wasn’t as impressive as it had seemed at first but hell if he had time to complain. To say that he carried Geralt in his arms would be an exaggeration, rather he dragged him to the wall. Carefully, Jaskier removed the sword from his back. Tucking the edges of the coat between his back and the cold stone was no difficult task. Without absolute disregard to privacy, Jaskier rummaged through the saddlebags but the only thing he could throw on top of Geralt was a sleeping bag.</p><p>       In case it was of any use, he added his own as well. Jaskier even laid his lute and his bag close to Geralt’s wounded side, pressing them there to shelter him against any sneaking gust of wind. The wavering flames painted his pale face in warm hues, made him seem a little more alive. The deception did not convince Jaskier. With little else to do but wait, exhausted, he snuggled against Geralt.</p><p>        "Oh, fuck. Thank you cruel world" he let out a sigh of joy, a shudder of pleasure. Beneath so many layers, second by second, the heat was slowly gaining ground.</p><p>       He put his arms around Geralt, trying to warm him by rubbing him. His eyelids were closed from exhaustion and the air seemed to be missing in his lungs. Now that the adrenaline died little by little, lost in his blood vessels, the pain became unbearable. He didn't feel his nose, his head was spinning. He sobbed softly with Little Eye's laugh in his mind.</p><p>       He would not die, he knew he would not. Not with the fire, the gloves and covered by so many layers. But Geralt, what about Geralt? Jaskier couldn't know it. He sobbed again and pressed harder against his side. He put his leg over his and rested his hands, covered in fur and wool, on Geralt's icy face. Blowing hot breath against his face, rubbing cheek to cheek against him like a loving cat.</p><p>       He fought against tiredness. Against the exhaustion of following a Witcher for weeks. Against the pain of bursting, bleeding blisters on his feet. Against the needles in his legs, in his hands, in his nose, for the attempt of his body to warm up. The blurred vision of Geralt's blood, his shattered leg, his unflappable face. Where was Little Eye? Was she alive, like Geralt? Almost dead, like Geralt?</p><p>       At least if the Witcher was asleep, Jaskier could drown his sorrows against the hollow of his neck. Sob by sob, he had to surrender to the demands of his body, to the pleas of his mind. All he had left was a strange apathy. A bizarre calm even as his whole body succumbed, as if he were seeing everything from the outside. A mere spectator.</p><p>       Roach's neigh, lying on the other side of the fire, shielding the entrance from the wind, was the last thing he heard.</p><p>       Geralt's face, his sharp jaw, his long lashes, the scar on his eye, was the last thing he saw.</p><p>       "Please, please, live. If not for me, if not for you, for Little Eye. Come back to me, Geralt" was the last thing he thought.</p><p>       Being able to give him his heat, the remains of his energy, whatever strength he had. A chance. A chance for Geralt to wake up with the sun. That was the last thing he asked of the gods. To his soul, to his mind, to whatever was listening to his pleas.</p><p>       Before weariness took him away, instinctively, out of habit, out of desperation, Jaskier whispered a lullaby against Geralt's cheek, his lips brushing his stubble. Heat, unexpectedly fierce, unyielding against winter, unnatural, spread from the centre of his body to his feet and blisters, his hands and its needles.</p><p>       Towards Geralt’s face, down his neck, down his body.</p><p>       Towards Geralt like his words, his whispered song. Little Eye's song.</p><p> </p><p>“Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby</p><p>Back to the years of loo-li lai-lay</p><p>And I'll sing you to sleep and I'll sing you tomorrow</p><p>Bless you with love for the road that you go…”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A warm winter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Did someone ask for fluff? Cause that's what you're getting.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Waking up felt like pealing off a particularly large scab; slow, painful and most likely unadvisable. The risen sun looked particularly orange against the bright blue sky. It took him two sleepy blinks before his heart skipped a beat. The tension rushed through him and he held his breath for half a second before sighing and bringing his hand to his chest in a very human gesture.</p><p>       "Damn it, Jaskier, what the hell are you doing?" he growled.</p><p>       What kind of idiot leans on top of a sleeping Witcher? Lucky was the bard that his sword wasn’t at hand. His sword.</p><p>       "What? Where? Ugh, fuck."</p><p>       His throat was dry enough that words hurt. In his attempt to get up, his body let him know that it was not the best of ideas. His leg burned as if he had put his foot in the mouth of a dragon and a glance at his arm, at the sorry state in which his armour had been, made him snort in frustration. He remembered now.</p><p>       Carefully he pulled Jaskier from his lap, where he slept like a baby, drooling all over his own sleeping bag that he hugged to for dear life. The fact that he didn't even flinch told Geralt that the man was beyond exhausted. Good. His head was pounding too much to deal with the bard right away.</p><p>       It was easy for him to put the pieces of the puzzle together, to guess what Jaskier had done. A frown distorted his features, unsure of what to do with that information. He found that the young man was neither feverish nor cold. Not being known to waste time, he decided that due to debt he should at least return the favour. With a brief pat to the shoulder, as if Jaskier could tell, he showed his gratitude. Still, his chest felt uncomfortably tight. No, that wasn’t enough.</p><p>       He eyed the man for a sign, a clue. There were streaks of dry tears on his cheeks. Geralt cracked his knuckle, hesitant. Humans wept for many things, but rarely for a Witcher, unless it was terror.</p><p>       Enough. There was no time for nonsense. The weight in his chest could wait or rot in hell for all he cared.  </p><p>       Jaskier was Jaskier and there was that. Geralt neither wanted to understand nor to reconsider. It was not his problem. Getting up in rigorous silence and leaving the makeshift blankets on top of the drooling sleeping beauty, he glanced around.</p><p>       Roach lay on the other side of a poor excuse for a bonfire already extinguished. She seemed to be judging him, so he glared back and shrugged his shoulders.</p><p>       “Got something to say?” she looked away with a snort “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”</p><p>       Next to where he had fallen asleep, he saw the lute, the bag and most importantly, his sword. With a grunt of exasperation, he placed it on his back once more. Any mountain beast could have ripped them apart in the dead of night, leaving Eskel or Lambert in charge of the corpses. The gesture was well-meant, but cemeteries were full of good intentions anyway.</p><p>       Yes, that felt better. Annoyance was an old friend, even if misplaced, even if overly dramatic. But concern, kindness? He’d have greater chances of staying alive if he tried to reach the fortress blindfolded and on one foot.</p><p>       He kicked the branches that Jaskier had considered too thick toward the small bonfire and with a sharp wave of his hand, the flames reheated the nook. Making use of the sunlight, he pulled at where the arrow had pierced through armour and cloak and examined it. The edges of the scab looked burned, taking on the colour of carmine.</p><p>       "Hanged Man's venom.” he said to himself, with that habit of his of commenting his findings out loud “It has so much Arenaria on it that I can still smell it."</p><p>       Made sense. Two poorly shot arrows were hardly enough to slow him down, let alone knock him out cold. <em>But that is war for you, isn’t it?</em> he thought, <em>Every time they find a reason to go for each other’s throat, they find new weapons too</em>.</p><p>       The freezing cold, on the other side, could and would have killed him. He spared a glance towards the snoring bard. Jaskier murmured on his sleep, rolling around and curling into himself. Geralt, amused, arched a brow and strained his ears to understand his babbles. Jaskier was having a rather agitated dream, turning around and frowning in his sleep.</p><p>       “No. No.” he said in agitated puffs of air. “Little Eye. No.”</p><p>       Geralt lost his hint of a smile at the sight. Jaskier trashed around, rolled the other way and clung tighter to the sleeping bag.</p><p>       “Hey! Hey, wake up.” Geralt called out harshly, hesitant to come closer. He doubted the sight of a golden cat eyes where better than whatever he was seeing in his dreams.</p><p>       Jaskier started to sweat, his eyes moved under his lids in frantic movements. In a swift move, the Witcher made his choice. Kneeling by his side, he shook him awake by the shoulders.</p><p>       “Jaskier. Jaskier.”</p><p>       “Let her go!” screamed Jaskier. He opened his eyes wide, then slapped Geralt across the face so hard he was suddenly looking at the sun again. Jaskier went pale. Geralt’s cheek went red. “Fuck.”</p><p>       “It’s fine” he grunted with lips now turned into a tight line. His cursory frown was back. “We all get nightmares”</p><p>       It took half a second of Jaskier breathing in deep for him to gather his thoughts. He cleaned away his own tears and stood up after Geralt. The Witcher turned his back to Jaskier, standing at the entrance of their nook with crossed arms.</p><p>       “You shouldn’t stand! Your leg…” the bard said hurriedly, gesturing at the two bleeding gaps in either side. The wounds had reopened.</p><p>       “I can walk.” Geralt cut him sharply.</p><p>       He cast a glance to his red, bloated leg. It hurt like hell but there was nothing to do about it but endure the pain. His layers of clothing were ruined but thanks to it, Jaskier had pulled the arrow out clean. A smart choice, especially when made in panic. Geralt reconsidered his stance and looked back at the bard.</p><p>       There he stood, awkwardly, like that day at the tavern. Hesitant, but never afraid. Gentle, welcoming, friendly. Everything that Geralt had learnt only led to a stab in the back, to deception. One of his first memories of Vesemir came to his mind.</p><p>       “They say Witchers don’t have feelings. I don’t care what you think of that, if you agree or you don’t. You know nothing of what it is to be a Witcher, but you better hope it’s true. It will keep you from dying uselessly”</p><p>       Words spoken coldly to a line of children with rage in their eyes but terror in their bones, children snatched away from humanity to be turned into something else. Something Jaskier was not. Something Jaskier didn’t need to suffer through.</p><p>       “Thank you.” Geralt said, and he meant it. “You did a good job. Very clever”.</p><p>       “Anytime!”</p><p>       Then there it was, that bright unnerving smile. It challenged the sun in its warmth. Wide and kind and for Geralt, only for Geralt. Jaskier sprung into action, unprompted.</p><p>       “It doesn’t look very healed, in my humble opinion, but oh, well, you know better. Let’s see… this goes… like that, yeah…” with quick hands, he rolled the sleeping bags and tied them tight. He drummed his fingers against them. “Gods, I am so overjoyed I can’t even sit still. Or quiet! Heh! But that’s always me, isn’t it? We should have breakfast, you need it. Don’t look at me like that, you can’t scare me.”</p><p>       The Witcher just waited, unsure of what to do. He had nightmares of his own, visions of the past. His duty didn’t let him linger in the aftermath of it, but Jaskier had no reason to play pretend.</p><p>       It bothered Geralt more than he would admit that the man, still so young, could fake a smile so perfectly. It wasn’t right, or fair. Geralt spent a lifetime hunting monsters and still, he only had two hands. He couldn’t protect everyone.</p><p>       He didn’t even know, to being with, what wraiths hunted Jaskier, what man-faced demon had shred him to pieces. How many times had he put himself back together that he could do it so fast, so easily? He didn’t want to know. He didn’t keep count for himself, he needn’t do it for someone else.</p><p>       Geralt rarely misjudged people but it nagged at him that maybe, just maybe, Jaskier had a reason to follow him. Something of importance, this time. Roach stood up and shook off the stiffness of her joints with a happy neigh. She let Jaskier attach the sleeping bags on top of each of her saddlebags.</p><p>       In the blink of an eye, Jaskier had his bag on his front and his lute on his back, as if yesterday had never happened. As if he hadn’t screamed himself awake. Jaskier rocked back and forth on his heels, smiling and expectant. Geralt let out a growl of frustration at merely seeing him. He should ask, should say something kind, something comforting.</p><p>       "The wound will heal on its own. Two or three days will be enough." That was not Jaskier's problem. That was his. Still, the news made the bard nod cheerfully, as if it had something to do with him. "By then, we will be at Kaer Morhen."</p><p>       "We?" his eyes opened in surprise; his clasped hands gripped tighter at the lute’s strap with unfiltered hope.</p><p>       "It's where you want to go, isn't it?"</p><p>       Geralt began walking, holding Roach by the reins, and without hesitation Jaskier followed. The sting in his leg fell just between endurable and unbearable, and though the suppuration made his skin itch, there was no need to stop.</p><p>       "What's Kaer Morhen like?" he asked cheerfully. The Witcher looked at him askance. The way he walked was a little strange, almost imperceptible, but not for his cat eyes.</p><p>       Blisters. But not a word of complaint. Geralt swallowed his desire to smile, which pounced on him like a panther in the night and left him feeling unease yet again. <em>What a strong little nobody, what is it that you hide?</em></p><p>       "Like a ruined fortress"</p><p>       "Does it have many towers?" Jaskier held tight to a strong root to crawl his way up another slope. He didn’t look back to the blood on the snow they left behind.</p><p>       "It has enough"</p><p>       “Did you grow up there?”</p><p>       “You could say that”</p><p>       Geralt guided Roach with a firm hand to keep her from rubbing against the thorns that covered a wall. Jaskier followed their every step and when he failed an got cut, he merely pressed his lips in a tight smile. Just a drop of blood on his cheek. His coat was well-built and endured the tears with dignity, without falling apart.  </p><p>       The horse barely fit in the corridor that had been built trough the mountain, held by a skeleton of metal and wood, and emerged a little over there, up. It was always a way up. On the other side, a forest greeted them.</p><p>       “Do you always go back in winter? It doesn’t seem the best time of the year to do it”</p><p>       “Yes.”</p><p>       "And there ..." Jaskier swallowed, put the bag back on his feet, and finally looked up from the roots and frozen stones "There are more Witchers there, right?"</p><p>       Geralt stopped dead in his tracks, turned abruptly and looked at him. There was no mercy, he let all that coldness that governed his gaze, his unflappable face, shine in all its splendour. Jaskier met his gaze without bravado or violence. For someone so given to speaking, his eyes told Geralt, silently, more than he could say.</p><p>       In the deep bright blue between dense eyelashes there was doubt, there was a trace of fear but above all, there was courage. The courage of a man who was in need of help and was not ashamed to ask for it.</p><p>       "What difference does it make to you?" he asked cautiously.</p><p>       His tone was hopelessly sharp, but his intention was none other than to know the truth. If he couldn't return the favour with kind words, he could do it with actions. If it was in his power, he would.</p><p>       "Not here, not now." Jaskier replied with unusual firmness. Geralt looked at him, trying to understand this man who did not seem to be the same bratty bard that the Witcher knew.</p><p>       “Why?”</p><p>       “If you had to speak of Blaviken, would you do it easily?” Jaskier spoke softly but sure of himself. Geralt didn’t say anything but he was sure his eyes spoke too. “Exactly. So save me the pain of going through this twice.”</p><p>       Geralt turned around again and into the woods they went. Elms and firs surrounded them. They would soon lose their leaves. In their impressive height, they seemed like immobile, sinister guardians of the road to the fortress.</p><p>       The Witcher, who knew those moors like the back of his hand recognized the soft fluttering of feathers in the distance of what could be his dinner. Not far from the road there was always the occasional burrow, if you did not want to go that far. Deep in the forest were herds of deer but being two people, it would be a waste.</p><p>       “It is my brothers you speak of, Jaskier.” He eventually said without meaning to intrude but to be honest. “I can tell you whether or not they’ll listen.”</p><p>       “They will”</p><p>       “We are Witchers. Don’t forget what Witchers are for. Your songs are just songs”.</p><p>       As Jaskier gifted him silence in return, he felt the need to look over his shoulder. Cornflower blue eyes stared upfront with determination, past Roach, past Geralt, even past the road itself. He saw something only his eyes could see. Whatever it was, it kept him walking on bleeding feet, on an empty stomach, in the frozen mountains of Kaedwen where a bard didn’t belong.  </p><p>       They walked until the sun fell and until the stars and moon shone high in the sky. Geralt, who had kept his waterskin full thanks to the White River, made sure to drink less than usual so Jaskier could have more. He still had to snatch it away from his hands but not even then did his unexpected companion utter a word. Geralt frowned, pondered the option of forcing him to confess, but ultimately respected his strength.</p><p>       They munched on Geralt’s dried meat and shared pieces of granola in companionable silence, walking side by side, their shoulders rubbing. The sun above their heads let Jaskier shrug off the strange broodiness that had taken over him. He had happily prowled not far from the dirt road.</p><p>       His hands caressed the bark as he listened close to the chirping of the birds. Jaskier nonchalantly told the Witcher all he knew of every tree and every animal he thought he heard in the distance, as if Vesemir hadn’t stuffed his brain with countless books about nature.</p><p>       Still, Geralt nodded along with a smile lingering in his face. There was something relaxing about the way Jaskier rambled when he did so happily but softly, like sitting by a stream, like watching the passing clouds.</p><p>       Geralt found his wonder endearing and thought that maybe Jaskier had only travelled as far north as Posada, in the edge between Kaedwen and Aedirn. He knew little of him, except of his knack for getting into trouble and his desire to sing his heart out. Maybe he should listen closely, maybe Jaskier was worth getting to know.</p><p>       Since there was no imminent threat nor anybody keeping count, he chose to enjoy the company and not dwell much on it. Would Vesemir have his head? Probably. Did he care? Less so every time Jaskier smiled his way. People were rarely nice to him, let alone friendly. Less common even, was interesting chatter.</p><p>       Now Jaskier couldn’t teach him much but it was fun to note the subtle difference in their knowledge. When Jaskier saw rabbit’s footprints, he narrated an old fairy tale. Geralt imagined speared roasted meat.</p><p>       Where Jaskier saw pretty colours, interesting shapes, the Witcher saw potions and salves. Jaskier was amazed at the virgin wood and spoke of the precious instruments that could be forged from it. Geralt replied that the best thing to do with those trees was a stockade. The bard had laughed at his monotone voice, playfully throwing his snowball his way. Geralt arched a brow and shook off the snow from his cloak, but he was smiling.</p><p>       For once in a very long time, winter felt warm.</p><p>       At sunset, Geralt had half a mind to let the bard ride Roach. Blue eyes, tired eyes were still looking straight ahead. With his shoulders slumped and his face red from the cold, he no longer seemed amazed by the soft snowfall. Jaskier walked like a ghost waiting for the final stumble that would bring him to the ground. But he walked, despite everything, he walked.</p><p>       When Jaskier saw the shape of Kaer Morhen in the far away distance, he regained the spring to his step with a gasp. Hope filled his eyes again and Geralt simply walked faster to match his pace. He didn’t bother hiding his smile when Jaskier turned around, bright eyed and smiling again, pointing eagerly at the mountain ruins.</p><p>       Geralt nodded, although confirmation was unnecessary. He had never seen someone so happy to see the keep. Not himself, nor the other Wolves. Kaer Morhen was home, but it was also a shit ton of work and another ton of unpleasant memories.</p><p>       His raised hand halted Roach’s march and made Jaskier look up from the floor with exhausted eyes and a hint of hope. Geralt strayed from the path to an empty area in between trees and heard the sight of relief at his back. It made him chuckle.</p><p>       It was easy to make a fire and he didn’t say a word as Jaskier dropped dead by it, belly to the sky, after he had made himself useful by freeing Roach from the saddlebags. In a display of forethought, he had even arranged their belongings carefully around the area much like Geralt would have done himself.</p><p>
  <em>       He might be young, but he’s got an eye for detail, I’ll give him that.  </em>
</p><p>       He let the man alone to rest and with a pat to Roach’s rear, he walked away from their impromptu camp to find dinner. Hardly an arduous task for his enhanced senses, a shriek in the night let Jaskier know there was one less rabbit alive in the world.</p><p>       “You don’t play your lute”</p><p>       It wasn’t a question. For once, it was a suggestion. Geralt sat opposite of the fire and started skinning the animal. Jaskier, with his head resting on his arms, turned to his side to see.</p><p>       With a yawn and the clear intention not to look at his future dinner, Jaskier shrugged. His gaze lingered on every detail of Geralt’s face. He couldn’t read the man very well but he could guess his good intentions.</p><p>       "I don't feel like it" he answered pervasively.</p><p>       "Did you slip up the hill?"</p><p>       "Is that a joke?" Jaskier smirked.</p><p>       "Touch the top of the head to see if there is blood. Just in case."</p><p>       There was silence for a few minutes in which Geralt devoted a titanic, and absolutely unjustified, attention to cross the rabbit with a sharp branch. He felt a little awkward with the blue gaze on his face and he knew it was only fair, karmic perhaps, after spending the day watching Jaskier like a mother hen. A distant, frowning mother hen.</p><p>       "It suits you to smile. If you did it more, it would be easier for me to convince people." Jaskier confessed, sitting up with a growl "Shit, my legs ... I think they are going to fall off"</p><p>       "Convince them of what?" Geralt placed the dinner on the fire, turning it on its axis patiently.</p><p>       "The White Wolf" with his palm toward the starry sky, he drew an arc. "A Witcher with a code of honour who travels across the Continent saving lives and leaving behind sighing maidens"</p><p>       Geralt laughed out loud, cynical and shaking his head in disbelief. Jaskier dropped his arm wearily and pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes. His blush deepened enough to be hardly excused by the cold.</p><p>       "Where did that bullshit idea come from?"</p><p>       "What? People want to believe in a hero. And heroes are paid well, Geralt. Better than Witchers." Jaskier pointed out, annoyed at Geralt’s disregard.</p><p>       "And here I thought you did it for the love of art"</p><p>       "It is not incompatible" Jaskier assured, hellbent on not looking like an idiot. “It’s a great idea, actually, just so you know.”</p><p>       Geralt removed the rabbit from the fire and stuck the stick into the snow, then turned around to extend their bedrolls. He laid them side by side, with Jaskier’s placed between his and the fire, away from the clawed, fanged dangers of the mountain.</p><p>       "May the plague get to the swindling bastard who sold me ... these ... damned ... boots!" the scream of pain echoed in the forest and Geralt, whose profession prevented him from being apprehensive, frowned in solidarity.</p><p>       Jaskier had had to pull free his feet from the boots, where they had stuck to by the crust and dried blood. His soles were absolutely busted. Where there was no blister, there was a cut or friction burn.</p><p>       Honestly, even Geralt would feel defeated if those were his feet. He glanced at the saddlebags leaning against a tree next to his silver sword as Jaskier tried to ease the pain by burying his feet in the snow. A terrible idea, but Geralt would allow it for a minute.</p><p>       “You eat first.” He ordered, handing over the speared rabbit.</p><p>       With the gloves shrugged off, the bard dirtied his hands without a second thought. His slender long fingers pierced like talons at the half-melted grease, tearing pieces of meat and stuffing his mouth with groans of pleasure. Geralt didn’t bother containing a smile of amusement as he rummaged through his saddlebags.</p><p>       He thought of Eskel, who found infinite pleasure in devouring his dinner ever since he had been but a kid in training, wrestling against Geralt for a piece of stale bread.</p><p>       They had a few things in common, now that he thought about it. Fame evaded them, they’d do anything for a warm woman by their side and they stared Geralt in the eyes, spoke his mind without fear. In their own particular ways, they both still believed in the goodness of the world.</p><p>
  <em>       Fuck. I like him. </em>
</p><p>       With Crow's eye root turned to dust, White myrtle petals and Balisse fruit in hand, kept to make Full Moon from scratch if needed be, he turned around. The grease smeared around the bard's pink mouth made his cheeks look wet.</p><p>       For someone dressed in a garish yellow doublet and so fond of salts and perfumes, Geralt had to admit that when needed, Jaskier had the tenacity and poise necessary to weather a storm.</p><p>
  <em>       Lambert won’t let me live this down. </em>
</p><p>       He sat down by his side and Jaskier offered the rabbit back right away.</p><p>       “Oh sure, it’s your turn.”</p><p>       “Keep eating.” Geralt tore to pieces the white petals, keeping them safe in his cupped palm.</p><p>       “It’s fine. I’m not hungry” Jaskier insisted with a smile. His guts growled in disagreement.</p><p>       He looked down, mortified, as Geralt poorly contained a snicker and let out softly.</p><p>       “Don’t be ashamed. It’s been a long day.”</p><p>       Red-cheeked he curled into himself and kept eating in silence but his eyes paid close attention to Geralt’s crafting.</p><p>       His strong hands had mashed a maroon rounded fruit and blended the petals and dust into it. The brown paste looked anything but appetizing and smelt even worse.</p><p>       “These ingredients are part of a Witcher potion. For vitality.” Geralt answered unasked, sparing the details.</p><p>       With his free, while also dirty, hand he grabbed the bard's ankle and pulled without hesitation to bring him closer. Jaskier, with an inelegant shriek, fell onto his back with the rabbit held high - priorities first - and his leg stretched out embarrassingly.</p><p>       “What are y…? OUCH!” Jaskier yelped, failing to incorporate himself as he wouldn’t let the rabbit drop to the floor. He still squirmed trying to get free of the iron grip. “Geralt, stop touching my feet it hurts!”</p><p>       “Shut up.” He ordered, then added more gently, or tried to “There’s no infection, you’re lucky.”</p><p>       “Lucky? Are you fucking blind?” Jaskier spat, frowning. Geralt arched a brow at him but smiled down at the bard. His feral grin, one he rarely showed because it made people go pale and recoil. A grin of camaraderie.  </p><p>       “You’ve got a pair to speak at a Witcher like that.”</p><p>       “Oh, shut your mouth. You’re the one whose letting me eat their dinner.” He waved the rabbit around accusingly. “You, my dear Witcher, are no big bad wolf.”</p><p>       Geralt huffed, amused, then shook his head and got to work.</p><p>       “This will sting.” Geralt warned then with the foot now resting on his lap he gently smeared the paste on the wounds.</p><p>       He ignored Jaskier’s sharp breath intake and the way he struggled not to wiggle like a dying worm. A brave bard, a bold one, but a bard in the end. Not a warrior. And maybe that was fine, he had stood his ground like one. Geralt could show empathy, he wasn’t as heartless as people made him out to be.</p><p>       “Melitele, must it burn so badly?” he asked with watered eyes.</p><p>       “Balisse fruit is poisonous.”</p><p>       “Excuse me?!” Jaskier barked, opening his eyes wide and he half rose to grasp the Witcher’s rough hands with his elegant ones. Screw the rabbit. “What the fuck, Geralt?!”</p><p>       “That’s why it’s dipped in alcohol.” Geralt said sharply and pulled his hand free in a rough manner. “It melts the poison. Now stay…put... I won’t ask again.”</p><p>       Jaskier gulped. Those glaring golden eyes had a power no man should have. He felt like a little boy back in Oxenfurt, when the teacher would tan his backside with a belt for his inexpedience. He felt the same burning heat, except on his cheeks.</p><p>       “Well just for the record” he groaned as he laid down on the snow with eyes ones again tightly closed and hands turned into fists “I think alcohol should only be drunk.”</p><p>       “You can tell Vesemir that. He might even like you and all” Geralt said half-jokingly.</p><p>       With careful hands, tender even, he massaged the remedy into the wounds. It still hurt, but hopefully less. Jaskier obeyed him, bravely bearing the pain.</p><p>       “Who's Vesemir?” he asked in a gasp of air. That was a particularly big blister, Geralt agreed. He blew softly to his sole. “Oh, yeah, do that, do that.”</p><p>       Golden eyes glared at him, he could tell without opening his eyes. He showed his palms in surrender.</p><p>       “Sorry.”</p><p>       “Hmm.” Geralt let the foot rest on his lap then moved onto the other.</p><p>       He hadn’t touched someone so cautiously, in a gentle brush of fingertips, in longer than he could remember. It felt nice to see that regardless of that hardship he called a life, he could still be gentle. He could still be human. Not an omen of misfortune, not a monster hunting monsters. Not a butcher.</p><p>       No. Something much simpler. A friendly hand.</p><p>       A welcome company, perhaps.</p><p>       “Vesemir is the man who made me what I am. He’s a father to me.”</p><p>       “He must be old as… fuck!”</p><p>       “Sorry. It’s almost done.” Geralt whispered kindly but there was little he could do about that huge burn on the arch. He blew some more cold air, for whatever it was worth, and checked the outcome.</p><p>       The night wouldn’t be long enough to let such wounds heal. Not for a human. At least, it should make it scab properly. An ugly, painful healing process laid ahead, but to inform Jaskier of that now would only worsen the morale.</p><p>       He looked up as a hand came in touch with his own. Jaskier, who at last sat on his ass yet still rested his legs on the Witcher’s lap in a most domestic gesture, scooped what was left of the paste from Geralt’s palm.</p><p>       He scooted closer until the underside of his thighs rested on the knees of the Witcher and his feet nearly touched each of those wide hips. Face to face, he happily announced:</p><p>       “You scratch my back, I scratch yours, right?”</p><p>       Geralt rarely felt startled.</p><p>       A stunned Witcher was a dead Witcher. To make matters worse, though tense like a bow, he didn’t want to move. He was certain even if he tried, his body would simply refuse.</p><p>       Warmth spread through him like morning sunrays. A spring’s breeze, a blossomed rose. Things that weren’t meant for Geralt.</p><p>       "Oh well, you were right. It’s healing very well. It's still horrendous around here though. Do you think there will be a scar?"</p><p>       On the inner side of his thigh was an elongated, irregular crust, dark and red-edged. Jaskier ran the tips of his fingers along it. Geralt followed the movement like a cat to a mouse.</p><p>       "It is inflamed, I think it is infected." his brow furrowed, and his lips pursed in concern. "I told you, you shouldn't be walking."</p><p>       "What are you doing?" Geralt snapped, emerging from the trance of bushy lashes and blue eyes, of rosy cheeks, rosy as his lips. He wasn’t a kid. He needn’t help or mercy.</p><p>       "Making sure you don't waste everything on my feet, obviously. Uh huh. Don't. Don't think I don't see you coming, Geralt. If you want to scare someone, try the rabbit."</p><p>       With a gesture of disdain for the poor half-eaten creature, abandoned in the snow, Jaskier ignored the renewed stupefaction in those golden eyes that didn’t know whether to pierce him like spears or surrender to confusion.</p><p>       "Now is not the time to get nosy" Jaskier confused his silence for reluctancy and calmly prepared to tend to the wound. "If you wanted to eat it hot, you should have listened to me when I offered."</p><p>       Geralt, perhaps reversed to the mere instinct to follow orders, as if they were Vesemir's words, took the dinner from the ground, shook the snow from it, and brought it to his mouth without taking his eyes off Jaskier. This wasn’t right.</p><p>       For a Witcher, that wound was nothing. A mosquito bite. Was it infected? Probably. When weren't they? Ghoul bites, venomous arachas, a wyvern's stinger ... It was no wonder, nor difficult, that his body ended up riddled with scars. And without Jaskier’s care, it would still be just another scar.</p><p>       He could (¡should!) tell him to stop. The rules were crystal clear. Witchers chose their own risks and dealt with the consequences. And they did so by themselves.</p><p><em>       Eventually, we slow down and we die. That’s it. </em>Those had been Vesemir’s words what felt like three lifetimes ago. It probably had been that long, to be honest. His words now. His only truth.</p><p>       Why let Jaskier shred it to pieces?</p><p>       He knew why.</p><p>       There was nothing to fight against. Not even a spectre of a threat,</p><p>       The touch of those rough finger pads was sweet and purposeful. His eyes held immense determination, as if it this duty he had bestowed upon himself was a matter of life or death.</p><p>       Jaskier. The bard whose singing he had mocked. The dreamer whose hopes he so eagerly insulted. An absolute chaos of a man with the preservation instincts of a rock. A stranger Geralt chose not to care about, not to get to know, because it was dangerous. An unnecessary risk, by all means.</p><p>       Did Jaskier not see that? Did Jaskier not know the perils onto which he dragged them both?</p><p>       Then Geralt thought, it wouldn’t matter.</p><p>       Sitting there half on top of the Witcher, with a radiant smile after an awful day, Jaskier was nothing if not a man of principles.</p><p>       “You look at me like I’ve grown another head” he laughed softly, patting him in his chest “Can’t be the bard of a limping Witcher, can I? Where’s the glamour in that?”</p><p>       Not as innocent as Geralt had thought him to be, Jaskier had definitely made a choice. Geralt was his choice. <em>A stupid choice, no doubt</em>, Geralt thought.  </p><p>       “Jaskier.”</p><p>       “Yes?”</p><p>       “If I can help with your… nightmare, whatever it is, I will.”</p><p>       Blue eyes opened like plates and his smile faltered for a second before he clasped his hands on Geralt’s wide shoulders and threw himself on the man, knocking him to the ground.</p><p>       “Geralt! You are the greatest Witcher in the world!” he giggled against his ear, nearly strangling Geralt with his hands around his neck.</p><p>       “Get the fuck off me!” Geralt tried to pry him off of him. Not that he was heavy but shit, this was beyond awkward.</p><p>       With tear-filled eyes, filled with hope to, Jaskier held Geralt’s cheeks in his hands, distorting the effect of his glare.</p><p>       “I swear it on my ma’s grave. You’ll be known as the White Wolf if it’s the last thing I do! I’ll pay you back, I swear”</p><p>       Geralt gripped his wrists tight and pulled the hands away without question. Rising abruptly, he dropped the bard onto his ass on the frozen ground.</p><p>       "If you do that again, the only thing you'll sing to is the grim reaper, understood?"</p><p>       "Loud and clear, Sir Witcher!" He smiled, turned upside down like a turtle.</p><p>       Geralt growled and walked past him, dropping the rabbit to his head which only made the man laugh harder.</p><p>       "Are you embarrassed? Has no one ever hugged you? Geralt! Geralt come back!”</p><p>       “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”</p><p>       “But I need my boots!” he demanded, still sprawled on the floor, happy as a kid. Little Eye. Little Eye would be saved. He had made it! He wanted to cry with joy. The chances of his plan working out were nearly non-existent, or so had he thought and now, now he had Geralt’s word.</p><p>       His boots hit him straight in the face and instead of complaining, he only let out a louder laugh. He cried again, like on his sleep, but he cried tears of relief.</p><p>       Geralt shook his head. Was he smiling? Only Roach could tell.</p><p>       She neighed happily.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A cursed blessing.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>On today's episode: Geralt finally accepts Jaskier by his side. <br/>Next stop: home sweet home.<br/>It might be uploaded later today :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       One day left. If they kept the pace, they would be there by sun fall. Geralt drummed his fingers against his knee, sitting on the sleeping bag and staring at the trees. He had tried to sleep to no avail. Instead, meditation had shortened the hours, which was his second-best option.</p><p>       Were it not for years upon years of experience, he might not have believed himself capable, but it wasn’t the first night spent questioning his own judgment. At least it had been a peaceful night; a concession from destiny, who so dedicatedly moved its strings only to ruin his life. A small truce, he figured, with the awkward weight on his chest.</p><p>       Sometimes he felt cheated.</p><p>       When his mother abandoned him, his prospects of a future went with her. And he had felt betrayed. Even as a kid, he had mourned and had known, he was not good enough. Not even for his mother.</p><p>       Then Vesemir found him, not by chance. His lessons were hard and cold where his hand and eyes were not. He became a father and a mentor, showed him the ways of the sword. But he too left Geralt behind. Behind a closed door. He did it once. And then he did it again. And Geralt didn’t want to be good enough anymore. Not for Vesemir, not for anyone. He just wanted the pain to stop.</p><p>       But worst of all? At the end of the day, the lies. He had been lied to. After endless torture, his feelings didn’t depart from him. They instead became a tangled mess never to be puzzled back together, for him to handle on his own in an endless loop of penitence. For whose sins he paid? As a kid, for someone else’s. As a Witcher, for his own. </p><p>       Misery. The misery of being a man supposedly ridden of choice, little more than a hitman, and still having to live with the conscience of a free man. How cruel could it get? So far, only crueller.</p><p>       Yes, he had been cheated. </p><p>       If he were a silver sword, the bolt of a crossbow, perhaps doubt would not weigh his chest. He dared dream that he would have no doubts at all, leaving these relegated to the poor soul meant to brandish him. Empty thoughts, pointless ones. He was what he was, a Witcher, and he’d die a Witcher.</p><p>       Was he doing a good job of it? Not likely. No. And it stung, even when this life had gifted him near to nothing, it still stung to fail his purpose. Was it right to pledge his help to Jaskier, unknowing of what that might entail? He wasn’t to hunt man. Their quarrels, however unfair to the innocent, were not his to fix. The balance of the world demanded it so. Eskel. Lamber. Vesemir. They wouldn’t agree. They might not even let him stick to his word.</p><p>       Would it have been better, then, to leave him to die out there in the barren lands, robbed by honourless soldiers, freeze to death? Was that the lesser evil? Should he have cut his throat himself, strip him of his warm smile, shit on his trust? He had done that to Renfri. And the world had kept moving.</p><p>       His mother's cart, which golden eyes still saw at every sunrise, drove off on the road and the only thing he had left was a weight on his chest, ever-growing. A tangle, a mess, a penitence.</p><p>       A choice to make.</p><p>       Jaskier stirred awake by his side like a house cat, buried deep in his bedroll, and snapped him from his thoughts. A peaceful night indeed, as needed for the bard as it was unwelcomed for the Witcher. He rubbed his eyes, shooing the slumber away.</p><p>       “Early to bed and early to rise, right?”</p><p>       “Hmm.” His gaze didn’t abandon the trees.</p><p>       Words rarely came to him in something other than sarcastic remarks, borderline cruel, or concealed insults. When the weight took their place in his chest, he hadn’t enough air to even mutter.</p><p>       He expected Jaskier to push it, to force a conversation out of him, as so many others had tried before. There wasn’t much place to run away to with the forest being neither a tavern nor a palace. He couldn’t hide behind revelry nor orchestra. Turned out, he didn’t have to.</p><p>       “Not feeling talkative, I see. That’s fine.” Jaskier laid on his back, watched the sky slowing losing its black to the inevitable, looped parade of the sun. “We’re all tired, right Roach?”</p><p>       She moved her ears and brushed at the snow with her tail which Jaskier took for agreeance but didn’t respond to. With a sigh and the resolve to ignore those sleepy eyes that followed him, Geralt set out to pack up the camp. The monotony of each movement helped him focus. Skilful, weather-beaten hands adjusted the saddlebags to the sides of the saddle and hooked the silver sword’s buckles.</p><p>       He sat next to the dead fire with the metal sword, which required more frequent care than the other with no runes to magically guard it. Gentle precise strokes with a whetstone followed, perfecting the edge of what allowed him to earn a living.</p><p>       Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bard curl up again in the warmth of his bed. More so than a cat, he looked like an unblown bud. One could only see a clump of dishevelled brown hair that smelled of sweat. No trace of orange or pinewood.</p><p>       By the time Geralt had already picked up his sleeping bag and taken a drink of water, Jaskier had fallen into a light slumber with his cheeks and nose red where they peeked over the woollen edge. Geralt spent a split second silently agreeing with all those who had confused the man with a half-elf, then decided that his beauty didn’t mean much to him. The sun was up, so they had to be on their way.  </p><p>       "Jaskier," he said dryly, with a cold countenance. His cat eyes did not miss the slight movement under the eyelids, or the subtle tug of a poorly contained smile. "Stop playing dumb. We're leaving."</p><p>       "Without breakfast at least? What unnecessary cruelty."</p><p>       "Yes."</p><p>       "Can't you show a little pity to a friend, Geralt?" His hands gripped the bushy interior tightly, but it did little good when the Witcher grabbed the bedroll from a corner and lifted it as if it weighed less than air.</p><p>       With an undignified screech, Jaskier fell headfirst to the ground. Spitting out the snow like a ball of fur, he raised an accusing finger, there on all fours with dignity scattered around him. The bedroll fell with a flap by his side.</p><p>       "That! ... was <em>not</em> necessary."</p><p>       "I am not your friend. If I tell you to get up, you get up."</p><p>       "Oh sorry, is your name Professor Shakeslock? Because I think this is not Oxenfurt."</p><p>       Geralt turned and started walking away. He had no greater purpose that day than sleeping under a roof. With a click of his tongue to call Roach, he trusted her to follow. On his back, a huff of annoyance, perhaps of incredulity, faded into the silence of the early morning. </p><p>       Another sigh, of resignation this time, and after an attempt to get up, Jaskier fell back to the ground with a hiss of pain. His knees hit the snow mercilessly and his palms scraped against the many pebbles.</p><p>       “Fuck.” He groaned in pain. The air had left his lungs and even as he had never stepped into fire, he was pretty sure it couldn’t be much worse.</p><p>       "Come on, Roach." Geralt growled and the mare obeyed. He had taken all of three steps, hellbent on ignoring the soft pants of agony at his back before he turned his head to see.</p><p>       Jaskier, with his lip between his teeth, was still curling on the ground. If Geralt judged his expression well, the man was frustrated, even embarrassed.</p><p>       "I can’t."</p><p>       "Can’t walk?”</p><p>       Swallowing hard, feeling like a little boy, worthless and spoiled, Jaskier nodded. The golden eyes scrutinized him, but he didn't dare look at them. He knew. He knew! He knew he had to pull his weight if he wanted to get to Kaer Morhen. There’d be time to be on hands and knees, begging for help, when they got there.</p><p>       "You could have told me.” Added Geralt.</p><p><em>       I should have guessed, </em>thought Geralt.</p><p>       "Hah. How funny. Before or after you threw me out of bed?" he whispered under his breath. Jaskier wanted to get up, he just couldn’t.</p><p>       "You're the one who was lazing around."</p><p>       "What a tremendous <em>sin</em> to enjoy safety at last. I am a <em>bard</em>, not a savage.” He spat. “Sleeping in the open, in the middle of a sterile and frozen land, with wyverns flying overhead is not what I’d call ... How can I put it mildly? An idyllic atmosphere for a nap."</p><p>       Geralt was taken aback by his fierceness, by the way the blue eyes showed no hesitation to call him out on his lack of compassion. Taciturn, grumpy, and reluctant to play pretend, even the Witcher had to admit that no one had ever been desperate enough -or spirited enough- to follow him for weeks. Jaskier hadn't even asked him for help or pity. Not to disturb, he hadn't even approached Geralt.</p><p>       To be honest, he wasn’t doing so now either.</p><p>       He crossed his arms without taking his eyes off Jaskier’s furious blush. The bard was taking deep breaths, looking at the snow with determination in his eyes. He would attempt to get up again, Geralt concluded.</p><p>
  <em>       He won’t give up, his not the kind to. Gods know he should, but I know he won’t. </em>
</p><p>       Of all the cruel games destiny played with him, this one always found him the loser. It pulled Geralt's strings in one direction, convinced him he was doing the right thing, so he followed, only to crash into the wall.</p><p>       His resolution to put some distance between them, to clearly state where each of them stood in that voluptuous unnatural relationship they shared, was shattered.</p><p>       Evil. Good. Right or wrong. Why should he bother?</p><p>       There was a man on his knees, bleeding for someone he couldn’t help with his own scraped hands, reduced to the mercy of a Witcher. <em>A Witcher. Of all the people he could ask for help, he trusts me to be the one to understand. </em></p><p>       “If you can’t walk, there’s no point in waiting for a miracle.”</p><p>       Blue eyes looked up in terror and before he could finish what he had to say, Jaskier was scrambling to get up. He staggered onto his feet, closing his eyes tight and fisting his hands as he did his best effort at muffling his hurt. Geralt smelt blood again and he really, really, wanted to punch the living shit out of the bard. Now that would be counterproductive, so he didn’t.</p><p>       “No, don’t go. I can do it. I can get to Kaer Morhen.” He said with difficulty, eager to prove what was clearly a lie. With a hesitant step, his pain couldn’t be hidden to the Witcher. He could downright smell it, if he couldn’t just look and see. Jaskier would collapse any time now, bending over to shake the snow off his bedroll. His legs trembled like a new-born fawn’s “Don’t leave, just one second. One. Please. I need to talk to Vesemir”</p><p>       “Enough.”</p><p>       “No, no, <em>please</em>. I’m nearly done! I swear I can walk!” He straightened himself with the bedroll in hand, trying to find what was worse, if standing on his heels or his tiptoes. He staggered and it was only the tree trunk that kept him standing. Blue eyes were trying their hardest not to shed a tear. <em>Don’t, </em>thought Jaskier to himself<em>, don’t make this worse you fucking cry-baby. Little Eye is somewhere being enslaved; this is nothing. Walk, for fuck’s sake, walk. </em></p><p>       “Get on Roach.”</p><p>       “Sorry?” said Jaskier with a thread of a voice. He turned to the Witcher with a frown of confusion, bedroll held in is hands tightly curled, bodyweight rested against the tree. He couldn’t have heard right.</p><p>       “I won’t get stranded in that incoming blizzard because in your human stupidity this was your greatest plan. Get on the horse, now.”</p><p>       Jaskier didn’t move an inch. Not a single bat of the eyes. His jaw didn’t even drop as his stupefaction demanded. Even when Geralt walked back to him, reins in hand, and snatched the bedroll from his hands, he didn’t dare to breathe.</p><p>       “Take that look off your face. It’s common sense. Your wounds are opened; it’s supposed to hurt before it heals. If you could walk, I’d take you for a monster.”</p><p>       “Right. Uh… yeah, of course…” Jaskier gestured to the saddle but Geralt couldn’t see him, he was busy fitting the bedroll in the bag with harsh pushes and then placing the lute on one shoulder, the bag in the other. “Me. On the horse. Your horse.”</p><p>       “Is that an order reserved for Professor Shakeslock too?” Geralt questioned with an arched brow, walking back past him without a glance.</p><p>       He could guess it wasn’t a pleasurable task to hurl oneself on top of Roach with ruined feet. Actually, he didn’t have to guess because he had been there before. Still, not another complaint was uttered at his back and soon enough, Roach had caught up with him.</p><p>       “Geralt.”</p><p>       “Hmm.”</p><p>       “Thank you. I won’t bother you again. I know I’m only human. And maybe stupid too.” He chuckled softly with his hands carding through the soft mane. God, had he wanted to do that. “But I’m not stupid enough not to appreciate this.”</p><p>       Silence followed. Tense silence that made the chirping of the birds too loud. Geralt knew it was his fault, but he also knew it was needed. He refused to give it a second thought. Who was Little Eye? He didn’t deserve to know. Probably someone worth fighting for, if Jaskier’s commitment was anything to go by.</p><p>       Geralt fought for coin, because when he didn’t, it was harder to sleep at night. Harder to excuse what he had done, or what he hadn’t. Witchers got paid in coin of gold, not in ideals, let alone in friendships. Why? Because Witchers couldn’t keep that on the Path.</p><p>       Theirs was a simple deed. The slaughter of monsters. Everything else was by default a risk, both for the man behind the silver blade and for everyone who depended on him wielding said blade. </p><p>       “Honestly,” Jaskier went on with eyes blue not only in colour but also in the way he looked up to the skies. “I thought many times I wouldn’t make it. I guess I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t interfered. I… All I mean to say is I know you walk alone, and even as I don’t think you have to, I can respect that. Once all is over, whatever the outcome…”</p><p>       “Yes?” Geralt prompted when hesitation snatched the words from Jaskier. He smelt fear, dread and assumed it to be for Little Eye.  </p><p>       “I will forever be grateful for your help. And leave you be. Thank you, Geralt, you have a good heart.”</p><p>       Finally, blue and gold met.</p><p>       That warm smile, which carried the strength of spring, soft but unyielding, willing to blossom through frost and wind, set free the weight in Geralt’s chest. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all. He took in a deep breath as discreetly as possible.</p><p>       What was the right thing to say? <em>What is expected of me?</em> He asked himself that so many times, searching through muffled emotions what was he meant to do. From Roach’s new ridder came a mocking tone, playful and light.</p><p>       “Take that look off your face. It’s common sense.” Said Jaskier, in a poor impression of Geralt’s deep gruff voice.</p><p>       Geralt huffed, looked at him askance but he smiled because it was hard not to when the bard did. And maybe it wasn’t right. Maybe he didn’t deserve to hear about Little Eye. Maybe it wasn’t his place to be the witness of gentle strength, of devoted sacrifice, of Jaskier’s smile.</p><p>       But it <em>felt</em> right.</p><p>       It was a tingle in his fingertips which he couldn’t blame on the cold. A weight brushed off his shoulders, pushed away from his chest. A chance, nearly an unspoken command, to enjoy the chirping of birds when they answered to Jaskier’s whistling. It wasn’t too loud anymore.</p><p>       If he let it, it even felt warm again, like inn’s stew, like a hard-earned bath… like the day before. He could fight for Little Eye; he could do it for the man who forced a feelingless man to feel.</p><p>       What a cursed blessing to have met Jaskier by chance. What a selfish choice, to want to stay by his side.</p><p>       “Let’s see if you’re still grateful when you meet Vesemir.”</p><p>       “Geralt.”</p><p>       He turned to look at Jaskier because the solemnity in his tone left no room.</p><p>       “What?” he frowned, confused at the sudden change of mood.</p><p>       “Do you call him daddy?”</p><p>       Roach stopped in his tracks. Geralt stopped on his tracks. The fucking world stopped in its tracks.</p><p>       Then came a barely contained laugh, a row of puffed breaths through tightly pressed lips. There was a twinkle in Jaskier’s eyes, and it shone the brightest before he burst out laughing, hands to his belly and nearly falling off the saddle.</p><p>       “Oi, Geralt. Geralt, don’t leave me!”</p><p>       “If I were you, I’d keep at a safe distance, bard.” He growled, quickening his pace as if he walked fast enough, he could leave that trauma behind.</p><p>
  <em>       Don’t. Don’t think that Geralt, don’t go down that road. Think of food. Rotten food. Or Lambert. Yes, Lambert in the hot springs. His hairy ass. Fuck that’s worse. </em>
</p><p>       “C’mon Roach, c’mon girl. Don’t you see he’s eager to see his daddy?”</p><p>       But there was no outrunning his mare. Or Jaskier.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Enjoyed it? Let me know! <br/>Prompts or kinks or whatever the heck you wanna see are welcomed.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Tear the barricade apart.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Two front towers stood at the end of the road. Embedded in the mountain lay the fortress, imposing and terrifying and all that could be expected from the home of a Witcher. Made of grey stone and still standing due to the devotion of an old wolf, it succumbed to the last sunset shadows.</p><p>       Geralt could see the moat in the distance, empty but of impressive depth. In his hand he held Roach's reins and on the mare's back, drooling over her neck, Jaskier slept. He snored loud enough to be mistaken for a war horn and it was only thanks to Roach's smooth gait that he did not fall out of the saddle.</p><p>       Mid-way through the day, Geralt had attached lute and bag to Roach so he’d have his hands free to fend off any monster, which he had heard far off from the road, but had crossed paths with none. All the better since before Jaskier had fallen asleep, he had used every word in the dictionary three times fold in his attempt to get Geralt into conversation.</p><p>       As he approached the drawbridge that would lead them into the courtyard a boisterous laugh, echoing from the Banquet Hall, made him chuckle. He would have expected to be the first to arrive at the fortress, after having been shot in the knee by a bunch of pariahs. However, the winding road that circled the fortress was rarely, if ever, empty of monsters. Now he understood why.</p><p>       The sound of hooves alerted the other Witchers, and Geralt didn't even have time to wake Jaskier before a welcoming howl echoed from the archway, more animalistic than human.</p><p>       "Look who's here! Just in time for dinner. You won't be too shy to set the table, will you, bastard?" roared Lambert, quickly walking down the steps with a feral smile. Geralt answered in kind, walking to meet him with an outstretched hand.</p><p>       “Who the fuck are you to talk? We keep bandits in our doorstep, now? Hope you were comfortable up here, uh? Sitting on that fat ass.”</p><p>       They clasped their hands together and bumped opposite shoulders before Geralt tried to catch Lambert in a playful headlock and got elbowed in his flank for the trouble.</p><p>       “Vesemir.” Greeted Geralt solemnly but still smiling.</p><p>       “Care to explain?” The old Wolf gave a head nod towards Roach with his arms crossed and a glare.</p><p>       “Straight to the chase, I see.” Shrugged Geralt. “That’s Jaskier. A bard in need of help.”</p><p>       “There are bulletin boards for a reason.”</p><p>       “Not sure this is the kind of thing you can leave in a note and keep your head on your shoulders.”</p><p>       “Not sure?” Vesemir’s frown deepened and as he walked close to them, Lambert was clever enough to take a step back and shoot Geralt a mocking grin from over Vesemir’s shoulder pads.</p><p>       “Didn’t tell.” Answered Geralt in all honesty, staring into his mentor's eyes the way he had learned to as a child. If he was to convince the man, he had to look sure of himself. A moment of hesitation and Vesemir would tear him apart.</p><p>       “Well, it’s time for a talk, then. Wake him up.” He ordered in a deliberately slow tone.</p><p>       “Jaskier walked The Killer by himself. He’s tired.”</p><p>       “He’s welcome.” Snickered Lambert. Of course, someone had had to clean the road there, and who would that be if not a Witcher.</p><p>       “I got shot and he saved my life.” Geralt added, sparing the details. If only Lambert had arrived later on, he might have crossed paths with the war party, and things would have been much different for Geralt.</p><p>       “That you needed his help says something about your incompetence,” said Vesemir, then looked over Geralt’s shoulder. He had unconsciously stood between the man and Jaskier. “But that he made it here, and you too, says something about him. Let him sleep.”</p><p>       Geralt relaxed his stance, which he hadn’t noticed to be as tense. Lambert clapped his back with a chuckle as Vesemir walked back inside without a word. If there was stew on the table, on a fool would let it get cold, and Vesemir was many things, but not a fool.</p><p>       “You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”</p><p>       “If I did, I could never come see your ugly mug again.” Geralt teased, implying Lamber to be a bother.</p><p>       “Oh, that’d be terrible. Nobody loses at gwent like you. I’d have to start making a living out of something else, like Witchering” he fake a shudder then roared his laugh again.</p><p>       “Geralt?” came a hesitant, soft call from behind.</p><p>       “Rise and shine, bard. Dinner’s cooling as we speak.” Said Lambert, coming to a stop near Roach. Geralt placed a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and rubbed him with a swipe of thumb.</p><p>       “We’ve arrived. Can you walk?”</p><p>       “My, my, what’s with that soft tone? You’re into babysitting now?”</p><p>       Geralt looked at Lambert with a curled lip, showing his fangs and his little patience. Jaskier, with his hands buried in the mane and rheum caught in the corner of his eye, was quick to compose himself. He cleared his throat and tried to sit right in the saddle.</p><p>       “Um, hello. I’m Jaskier.” His blue eyes glanced with worry at Geralt, unsure of what to say.  He stretched out a hand, which was not shaken. “Thank you for… the chance?”</p><p>       “The chance?” Lambert repeated. Geralt expected the man to be a prick, but maybe not right away. “We’re not hiring you to empty our chamber pots, though you do have a pretty face. Could pass as a maiden more than a man.”</p><p>       “Excuse me?” Jaskier’s pale complexion turned to bright red, contrasting hilariously with his wide-open eyes.</p><p>       “A quarter-elf? That why you’re here?”</p><p>       “Lambert.” Geralt warned with a sigh. He didn’t have the energy for this.</p><p>       “I’m just greeting our new chambermaid” he said, opening his arms in a wide gesture of pretended innocence. He chuckled and shrugged, “Should know what he’s getting into.”</p><p>       Without another word, he turned around and strode back into the Keep, to the warmth of the torches and the stew. Geralt closed his eyes tight for a second, a hand to his forehead.</p><p>       “That’s Lambert. A prick, but a good man.” He sighed.</p><p>       “As long as he leaves enough stew for us.” Jaskier tried to joke both to ease the tension away and to fend off the growing unease within.</p><p>       He didn’t know what to expect and, in a way, he was glad to have to face a little bickering if that was all. It was human, mundane. He could navigate his way trough that with words and perseverance. Lamber wasn’t his biggest challenge. Without having seen Vesemir yet, Jaskier was sure of that already.</p><p>       “That’s the spirit.”</p><p>       One strong hand gripped Jaskier's waist, further wrinkling his doublet, and the other tugged on his shoulder, pulling him off the horse and onto Geralt. Instinctively, his arms rushed to hug the wide shoulders with a sharp intake of breath.</p><p>       Before his feet touched the floor, the hand in his waist slipped to the back of his knees and there he was, cradled in strong arms, pressed close to a chest with a slow beating heart. He went to rise his head, to look Geralt in the eye, and only managed to headbutt him in the chin.</p><p>       “Sorry!” he squeaked in response to the grunt that came from above.</p><p>       “Take the reins.”</p><p>       Jaskier reached out with a gloved hand towards Roach who patiently waited, batting her ears. His mind was both blank and a hurricane. Geralt was carrying him like a newlywed. Against his flank, he felt the warmth that emanated from him. His breaths wafted his tousled hair. He looked up through his eyelashes, awestruck.</p><p>       Geralt stared upfront and the moonlight gave a blueish tint to his golden cat eyes. <em>They’re so strikingly beautiful,</em> thought Jaskier. He wondered what it’d feel like to rub against that scruff and was gifted with the smeared memory of a sung lullaby, freezing in a nook.</p><p>       Heat rose to his face not because he was shy nor a virgin, but because to think of such private gesture, so candid and personal, if done to Geralt, made his heart skip a beat. He hid by making himself as small as possible and tucking his head in the gap of that wide neck.</p><p>       “You’ve worked so hard, I’m proud of you. Strong and beautiful, you really have it all, uh?” Geralt whispered softly. Jaskier froze on the spot. Then Geralt, using his knee to rest the bard in it so he’d have his hand free, took the reins and tied them to the hook. “I’ll be back to take everything off you, Roach. Wait here.”</p><p>       The horse.</p><p>       Geralt spoke to his horse. Jaskier breathed out a lungful of air in hesitant breaths, getting redder by the minute. He slowly placed his hand on top of the leather-covered chest, taking every precaution to not betray his racing thoughts. In a swift move, the hand was back under his knees and he was gently rocked upwards like a slipping off baby, so he’d once more be easy to carry.</p><p>       “Is everything okay? Your heart is racing.”</p><p>       “Yeah, I’m fine” his voice betrayed him with a high squawk. He cleared his throat and tried to go on. “I’m perfectly fine.”</p><p>       “Hmm.”</p><p>       “What?” he was quick to say, too quick. His eyes stole repeated glances to that face carved in stone that revealed as much expression as expected.</p><p>       “You smell weird.”</p><p>       Geralt walked up the steps to the Banquet Hall as Jaskier made a titanic effort to stay composed. The warmth of a nearby fire, a kitchen maybe, heated the hall from the stone floors up to the high ceilings. And in a glimpse at the room, the poet side of Jaskier overtook his fluttering heart.</p><p>       “Holy shit.” He mumbled with an open mouth and eyes travelling all across the view.</p><p>       The perfectly matched red tiles, with ancient dust embedded in the chinks, echoed under Geralt's boots. There were many broken, cracked ones too.</p><p>       There were cracks in the walls, and on the larger, rough-looking rocks, Jaskier thought he saw some discreetly hidden marine fossil. The entire fortress exuded pride and importance without questioning its function. It was not a court for kings and ballroom dancing, so it had no stage or rugs, no throne.</p><p>       The greenish glass windows at the back, between the staircase and the corner at the right, spoke of better days, but in the end, what was really important remained; a safe roof under which to sleep and the ideal place to gather, to replace horrible memories with more pleasant stories.</p><p>       The candles on the chandeliers were extinguished, perhaps they had not been lit in years, and only the fire in the back on the right, from which came a delicious smell of carrot, venison and pepper, was in charge of giving light and heat to the room.</p><p>       To the left there was not much, and the columns seemed even more imposing. A few swords, at least two dozen, neatly stored in a wooden frame, easy to pull out. Jaskier saw some chests, a few crossbows on the wall and various furniture covered by sheets and decided to look the other way now. Geralt, still holding him in his arms, was not ashamed to continue walking.</p><p>       On the right, two reddish wooden tables, one made of planks and one perfectly polished and round, served as a dining room. Vesemir sat to one side, with a book resting on his bent leg and his sidelong glance. And on the other side, with the spoon in a steaming bowl, was Lambert, who, of course, was quick to react.</p><p>       “Oh, ho, ho, if this isn’t the fucking greatest day in history!” Lambert cackled, bumping his fist against the table and going red with laughter as he couldn’t even breath “It’s not a chambermaid, it’s a princess!”</p><p>       “And you’re like a five-year-old, Lambert. To each, their own” Vesemir spat and turned the page. Jaskier hadn’t seen such a big hardback since his days in Oxenfurt. He was just as eager to get his hands on it… if he could <em>also </em>keep his hands after, that is.</p><p>       “Jaskier will sleep on the library for now, if that’s okay.”</p><p>       “On the <em>library</em>? What kind of place is that for a wedding night?” Lambert challenged Geralt’s patience with a smirk and a malicious sneer. Usually, he’d hit back. But usually, he wouldn’t have Jaskier, mortified, in his arms. </p><p>       “I've already left blankets there and lit the brazier. I'll bring him some stew in a minute.”</p><p>       “Appreciated” Geralt gave a subtle head bow to his mentor and went up the stairs, leaving the crow-like cackling behind. He could still hear the banging of fist on wood from the first floor, but hopefully, Jaskier wouldn’t.</p><p>       The first floor was cold as a cemetery and just as creepy. Without a makeshift kitchen to provide light and heat, only the full moon sneaked in through the window. Jaskier made no attempt to peek around, because, as a human, the shadows did not allow it.</p><p>       Instead, he settled for relaxing in silence, in the peace of not being scrutinized by golden eyes or used as the training dummy for Lambert's rude humour. He had tried to say something, perhaps something clever or noteworthy, but Vesemir hadn’t even spared him a glance.</p><p>       He decided to look up and in response, Geralt looked back at him. His face remained undisturbed but Jaskier did not let it bother him. He was not so innocent as to believe that because Geralt had decided not to abandon him in the snow, it meant that the man was suddenly going to be a ray of sunshine.</p><p>       And he didn't care because he liked it that way. Geralt was above all an enigma and Jaskier, a man of curious nature. If he liked the easy life, he would have stayed in his palace, hidden behind his family name. Instead, he had become a bard with restless feet and a sharp mind, ready to know every nook and cranny of the one who, albeit reluctantly, had become his muse.</p><p>       As Geralt took him wherever the library was, probably not far away, he took the opportunity to remove his gloves and stretch out his stiff fingers. The boots had been a scam, but the coat and gloves had been worth every crown. He repressed the desire to squirm around. Having slept half of the day, now energy coursed through him and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.</p><p>       “You look disturbingly happy.” Said Geralt with his furrowed brow and watchful eyes that never missed a detail. Not that Jaskier’s huge grin counted as one.</p><p>       “How so?”</p><p>       “You’re in a fortress with three Witchers. People have nightmares about this.”</p><p>       “Maybe I’m the bravest man in the world.” Jaskier shrugged, jokingly.</p><p>       “The stupidest one, at least. A word of advice, contain your pomposity around Vesemir.”</p><p>       “I’m not pompous!” Jaskier said with raised eyebrows and a gaping mouth. He slapped Geralt’s chest with his glove in a dramatic fashion “Take that back this very second, Geralt of Rivia”</p><p>       “Do that again and you’re sleeping with Roach” he growled but there was no heat behind it.</p><p>       “At least she wouldn’t mock me! I’m <em>emotional,</em> as is any man of art.”</p><p>       “Volatile, you mean. Like an overexcited puppy.”</p><p>       “A pu—” Jaskier blushed furiously in record time and took in a lungful of air behind pursed lips. Geralt’s eyes shone with mischief, with the pride of having struck right where it hurt but otherwise, he remained his stoic self.  </p><p>       Right as Jaskier went to strike again, the arm around his back hauled him up and all the air left him in a squeak as he was thrown over a wide shoulder.</p><p>       “Geralt!”</p><p>       His arms scrambled for something to hold onto and he ended with his hands gripping the cape at waist level, straining his fingers under the hidden belt. The arm around the back of his knees, wide and strong, prevented him from kicking around and falling face-first.</p><p>       “Behave like a brat, get treated like a brat.” He deadpanned.</p><p>       “You brute! I must fend for my honour! Release me at once!”</p><p>       “You don’t have that.”</p><p>       “Won’t get laid if you piss your princess off!” came a yell from below, followed by laughter.</p><p>       “Mind your fucking business, Lambert.” Geralt screamed at the stairs left behind, and it echoed in the hall.</p><p>       Opening the door with a push of a leg, the dark and cold room was left behind to give way to walls full of books, welcoming warmth and moonlight, elegantly filtered through a skylight. The kind of place that little Jaskier fled from his teacher and his rod to dream of. He dropped a glove to the floor in his stupefaction as Geralt walked through it to the end. He just laid there, thrown over like a potato sack and with as much to say as one.</p><p>       “Kicked the fight out of you, uh? It’s quite impressive at first, I guess.”</p><p>       “You <em>guess</em>? Geralt, this is paradise! The cradle of ancient knowledge is my bedroom. The secrets of witchering at my feet. What cannot be learned here? Everything, everything can be! Geralt, how wonderful, look at that bookshelf! It’ll crack under the weight! Put me down, put me down, come on”</p><p>       “Calm's been short, I fear.” Geralt growled dryly.</p><p>       Before Jaskier gouged out his eye with such sudden, relentless kicking around, he decided to drop him without much thought on the blanket mountain.</p><p>       The blow against stone did nothing to deter him or ruin his mood. Jaskier quickly walked on all fours to the nearest bookshelf and latched onto it like a baby to their mother's breast. Running his finger over the spine of the dusty books, he read aloud.</p><p>       “A Few Remarks on Basilisks and Cockatrices…”</p><p>       “Those are not for you.”</p><p>       “Beasts of the Tukaj Foothills…”</p><p>       “Vesemir will have your head.” <em>And mine first,</em> he thought.</p><p>       It had been a long day, Geralt merely wanted some stew, a round of Gwent and blessed sleep. Had he not done enough good yet to deserve that? He wouldn’t say he already regretted his choice, but the bard had a gift to get on his nerves.</p><p>       The last he needed was Jaskier finding some written curse only to stupidly -and wrongly- read it out loud, managing to crumble the fortress into dust. He gritted his teeth and chose to hold his ground. The sooner Jaskier understood the difference between out there and in here, the better. Like tearing off a crusty bandage, it had to be done.</p><p>       “A Portrayal of the Elder Races!” with hungry fingers Jaskier pulled the book out and caressed its cover in awe before he snapped his gaze up to look at Geralt’s frowning face. “Can I have this one? Please? It’s been so long since I read it!”</p><p>       “No. And it’s all a lie.”</p><p>       “I know! I want to compare it with other sources.” He gestured around the library. “Sources only to be found here.”</p><p>       “Put it back. I won’t repeat myself. I’m not your mother.”</p><p>       “No, you’re not. To her, I’d listen.” Jaskier smiled mischievously and sat down on his ass, already skimming trough the pages.</p><p>       He coughed at the collected dust and rubbed his nose against the inner elbow of his yellow doublet. Geralt closed the small space between them in a stride and snatched the book away.</p><p>       “Hey!”</p><p>       “Hear me out, for I won’t say this again. This is Kaer Morhen, not your courts, not one of your games, not any of that. Here, we follow orders, we’re disciplined.” Geralt scowled him, walking towards the brazier and leaving the book in the table there. “It’s one thing to be out there in the world getting into trouble and is another one to get into trouble here.”   </p><p>       Jaskier felt as if he had been slapped across the face. His excitement died down and he kept a face as neutral as possible, as every time he was given a dress-down. Usually, he’d be struggling to contain his laughter, but there was nothing funny about how cold those golden eyes could get.</p><p>       His hands fidgeted with the hem of his coat and he lowered his gaze. He felt unwelcomed again. A none too gentle reminder of how far apart they still stood.  </p><p>       “The things contained here are not to be played with” Geralt carried on, stern, gazing out the window into the night. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I’ll give you a fair warning.”</p><p>       “Geralt, I—”</p><p>       “Quiet.” He ordered. “This, you must know. And you must know now before it’s too late.”</p><p>       If he waited, Geralt might never have the courage to do it.</p><p>       He had to make clear what kind of place Kaer Morhen was, and what was expected of him as Witcher, before Jaskier, like waves against a cliff, finally smoothed down all his defences. Before everything on which he had built his life turned into sea foam, at least he had to leave the library knowing that he had made the right choice.</p><p>       He had to spell it out for Jaskier, what was to be expected.</p><p>       “Think of me as coldhearted, inhumane. Get angry or silent, that's your choice to make. But don't mistake me for any other man. Don't look at my way of life and think it needs fixing. This that I am I didn't become by choice, but it is still what I am and therefore what I have to offer. Which is not much at all.”</p><p>       “It's enough, far more than enough.” Whispered Jaskier, words pushed around the knot in his throat. He wasn’t one to stay silent and he wouldn’t start now.</p><p>       “It's not. The company I might offer is cold and practical. To call it friendship would be impermissible. When you cry, when you feast, when you laugh or shout in anger, I won't understand. Not truly. Not the way you want me to. I cannot.”</p><p>       “Then understand the way which only you can, for that is all I ask for. That is all I want.” </p><p>       Geralt turned around and had Jaskier not known who stood before him, he would have sworn to see hesitation, panic, in the way those broad arms moved around in an effort to bring strength to the Witcher’s words. The golden eyes fell upon Jaskier, but he didn’t shy away, he held on.</p><p>       “When I act upon my wishes or if I dare speak my mind in fullness, I might cut you deeper than my sword could. I could look at you and see everything that is not, or the other way around, whatever the topic or the context. Simply put, you're bound to be deceived or disappointed.”</p><p>       The embers of the brazier, glowing red and orange, joined forces with Geralt's words, spoken with determination, with near violence. Spat out. Torn off his chest, through bone, muscle and leather, to be thrown like a grenade.</p><p>       Jaskier was not a man of war, but of letters and tender care, mischievous in benign ways. Lucky for him, he could rise to the challenge. This was a battle he could win, one he needn't hide from. In a way, he was already victor, for if Geralt was convinced of his words, then Jaskier was convinced tenfold.  </p><p>       “Is that the best you can do? Point out the obvious truth? I'm not that naïve, Geralt. Do I love a good story, a knight in shining armour? Yes. Yes, I do. To compose a ballad, not to have as a friend. Or whatever you’d have it called so it doesn't scare you off.”</p><p>       “I don't understand.” Muttered Geralt, at a loss of words, with a frown and desperate.</p><p>       Even as he could see in the night, that which he saw, he feared a mirage. Desperate he was, because to misread Jaskier now and twist his words to fit the gaps in his heart could bring him down. Make it crumble if they turned to dust, to lies.  </p><p>       “But you do. You just wish you didn't. You want to think I'm mistaken, beguiled, but I'm not. So you have flaws? Good to know. It'd be unspeakably unfair if you didn't. Now be honest to yourself, so that you may be honest to me, which is the least I deserve. Do you fear that I get hurt? Or do you fear to do the hurting?”</p><p>       Jaskier took a gulp of air, which he too needed, both to refill his lungs and to steady his voice on the verge of cracking. Emotion-ridden as he was, he took a look at what he had and what he could have and took the leap. He'd tear down the barricade with his bare hands if he had to.</p><p>       No river, no mountain, no amount of cold red tiles between them would stand a chance. Not between a bard and his muse. Not between the chance to understand and be understood in return and their trembling weak hearts.</p><p>       “Because the way I see it, Geralt, it's not your lack of heart that keeps you from bonding, or you wouldn't walk back to Kaer Morhen every winter. It's the fear that someone who's not a Witcher may understand you, because if so, then you can't hide anymore. And that, that terrifies you.”</p><p>       The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning and intent. Geralt stood there still like a gargoyle, fearing a sudden move would snap them out of their trance. Jaskier swallowed and rubbed his runny nose against the cuffs of his doublet, without departing his gaze from the golden one.</p><p>       Then came new words, gently spoken, the last warning.</p><p>       “You’ll regret this.”</p><p>       Only to be disregarded without hesitation, like slapping away a bothersome fly.</p><p>       “We shall see.”</p><p>       A small tear, perhaps of relief, how was Geralt to know, rested on his eyelashes like morning dew. In a blink, it fell down his cheek and melted into the curved corner of those pink lips.</p><p>       “Did I… Did I offend you?” What he wanted to ask was, <em>Do I disgust you? </em></p><p>       “I’m hard to offend.” Jaskier joked, with what he had left of his voice. He trembled, not out of fear or cold, but something else. Like is body knew the importance of this moment and wanted him ready. Fight or flight? The answer was easy to see.  “Care to be more specific?”</p><p>       “By carrying you. Did I?” Geralt moved the book a little to the left, perfectly centred in the table, in what for any other man Jaskier would call a nervous gesture.</p><p>       “No, of course not. Would have been worse to make the way up here crawling. Is there not a single Witcher here that knows how to sweep the floors?” Jaskier said, with the hopes of breaking the tension apart for good this time. And it shattered, it died.</p><p>       Geralt’s lip turned into a small smile and he looked up from the candle before returning his features to stone. But Jaskier saw, felt the change.</p><p>       “I’m sure Vesemir will put us to work tomorrow. Rest well.”</p><p>       “I’ll try. Good night, Geralt.”</p><p>       “Good night.”</p><p>       Geralt lingered for a second in the doorframe, licked his lips like he had something to say, then looked at the stone floor and walked away, closing the door behind.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In the next episode, Jaskier will get up to no good as he finds himself too interested in searching the Keep. Brace yourself for a little bit of a bumpy ride as Jaskier tries to force his way into the lives of the Wolves, whatever it takes, whether that's cleaning, cooking, or even fencing. Geralt is down, but Lambert is next.<br/>Oh wait, where is Eskel? </p><p>Consider leaving a comment if you liked it ;) you may always mention to me typos and any prompts or anything you want to see too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Cosmic karma and a dollop of douche.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I proudly announce with this chapter that the introduction is finally done. May the domestic fluff, angst and humour begin and birth the polyamorous relationship we are all here for!</p><p> </p><p>Do tell me -if you have time and the desire to do so- if you find my characterization of Eskel and Lambert appropriate. They're not as important in the books as in the games, and even there we don't see as much of how they are as I'd like. They're not in the Netflix show yet, so... please let me know if you find it unnatural. I hold the hopes that this story, however impossible in cannon, would at least come off as feasible. </p><p>See you in the comments!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         His eyes wandered through the ceiling beams that he could barely catch a glimpse of in the dim light from the candle. It had been a while since a blizzard had started and the skylight was covered in snow, so although Jaskier was sure that it was still night, as the fortress had fallen into absolute silence and continued to be silent, it was not clear to him how many more hours he had to be bored rigid, buried under blankets.</p><p>         Since he was not sleepy and was restless-minded since birth, Jaskier was pondering the possibility of sneaking away ... anywhere. Anything other than staring into the dark another hour would do.</p><p>         He licked his lips and swallowed, somewhat nervously, before raising his head to look at the door, or where he knew the door was. With a tentative hand, plucked from the warmth and comfort of the covers, he picked up the plate on which the candle rested and sat down.</p><p>         The last face he had seen was Vesemir's, and though he had tried to introduce himself, choosing good manners over the urge to overwhelm him with questions, the old wolf had only stared at him, bowl of stew in hand.</p><p>         Jaskier thought that the worst that a Witcher’s feline eyes could be was cold, cold as a wall that neither responds nor lets you pass. But no, the worst was Vesemir's analytical gaze. He had not had the decency to inform the poor bard what he was looking for. He had only passed by him, and by his attempt to converse, and left on the table his hot dinner, a roll of bandages, and a gray paste that smelled of tallow and mushrooms.</p><p>         Then, in the door frame, he had turned again and with a farewell nod, he left the way he had come. For a while, he entertained himself with the throbbing doubts as to whether that meant that as soon as he could walk, Jaskier was going to be thrown out of the fortress like a smelly rat or whether, on the contrary, Vesemir was judging him because he found no reason to kick him out. Jaskier hoped, for the sake of his mission, that it would be the latter.</p><p>         Otherwise, he had already prepared, bored at night, three or four little songs to sing at the top of his lungs from outside the wall. And he would sing until a monster ate him or the door was opened again. But leaving he was not.</p><p>         Except for the library, that he did plan to leave behind at that very moment.</p><p>         With his foot daubed in that dubious paste and rolled up in as many layers of bandages as they had left at his disposal, walking was not as painful as it was uncomfortable. He gave in to the impossibility of putting on his boots and hoped that the thick socks, added to the bandage, would be enough to face the tiles.</p><p>         Limping but determined to see the sunrise somewhere other than the library, he opened the creaking door slowly and winced, hoping it wasn't enough noise to wake anyone up.</p><p>         The candle only gave it light to know what was a meter away, but the windows took care of giving enough light to the room, even when the snow and wind threatened to burst them. Honestly, if that blizzard had not awakened anyone, Jaskier doubted that his prowling would.</p><p>         Although he glanced at the stairs by the right that seemed to lead to some room at the top of Kaer Morhen, he decided it would be the kind of place a Witcher would sleep in. The safest bet was the ground floor, so he went there with the certainty that he was leaving every sleeping soul on the second floor.</p><p>         The good thing about a ruined fortress in the middle of an icy mountain was that no one would dream of putting out the fire. Thus, as soon as he descended the last step, wrapped in one of the blankets made of roughly sewn scraps, with one hand holding the ends at his neck and the other carrying the candle, the first thing he identified was the kitchen.</p><p>         It was a kitchen built with the clear intention of feeding a school of hungry and in-training Witchers, plus all the mentors and perhaps an occasional guest. However, like everything else in Kaer Morhen, it had fallen out of favour. The effort to repair not only the kitchen but the entire fortress would be immeasurably expensive and futile. Why do it? It didn't seem like they were training anyone anymore.</p><p>         Jaskier was aware that there were fewer and fewer monsters due to the advance of civilization and the construction of modern cities like Novirgrad, impenetrable for most creatures, but he had never stopped to think about what this implied for Witchers. Still, Jaskier had a feeling something else had happened there.</p><p>         Curious by nature he couldn't help but think that some of the wounds on the walls, whether they were cracks, huge scratches or gaps, didn't seem to be the sole fault of time and neglect.</p><p>         Of course, he, who unlike his cousin did not fall out of the crib as a baby, had no intention of delving into the painful past of men with inhuman reflexes and swords behind their back. Perhaps, he wanted to believe, someday they would tell him.</p><p>         He gasped and nearly dropped the candle. By the side of the two fires and the enormous chimneys that rose above them, kept the area smoke-free, slept Lambert.</p><p>         He was lying on top of one of the tables, his hand half curled around the neck of a bottle, as if he had fallen asleep in the middle of a story so fast-paced that he needed to stand with dirty boots on top of where they would later cook. Jaskier gagged just thinking about it.</p><p>         Even asleep, the man seemed ready to open his mouth and let out some outrage. The only thing that came out of Lambert, however, was loud snoring.</p><p>         Jaskier approached slowly, convinced that startling awake a Witcher could only mean death. He left the candle in the corner of the empty table and looked around, wrapping himself tighter in his cocoon.</p><p>         The room was full of barrels, cheeses, a hanging ham, enough bottles to lose count and other disorganized paraphernalia. It would do them good, Jaskier thought, to get a couple more pieces of furniture.</p><p>         Glancing sideways at Lambert, who sprawled on his back looked like he was dreaming something joyful, <strong>—</strong>if the foolish smile in his bearded face was indicative of anything<strong>—</strong> Jaskier picked up the scattered, empty bottles from the floor.</p><p>         Although the kitchen had two great stoves with raging fires, the fortress was undoubtedly the kingdom of the cold and icy winds. While Jaskier did not believe that these people could get sick, neither did he believe that to be an excuse to sleep outside like a savage.</p><p>         In relative silence, he grouped the tankards in the free space of one of the two shelves that kept company to the huge cobweb in the corner. He decided to ignore the amount of dust and grime that accumulated in a structure, made of plates and wooden beams joined by nails and rope, in which, much to his dismay, most of the food seemed to be kept, half covered by a tarp.</p><p>         Dubious about whether it was a good option to try to fix the place without anyone's permission, he chose to let the disaster be. At least there was no longer anything rolling on the floor, waiting to be stepped on and open someone's skull. It made sense now that the tiles were red, so the blood would be less noticeable.</p><p>         In a gesture of goodwill, he decided to cover Lambert with his blanket and stay by the fire for a while, flipping through the dusty cookbooks he'd seen around. Jaskier hoped those weren't banned too.</p><p>         Of course, as soon as the sun came up he was going to do two things. One, ask for help. That was the most important thing but he didn't want to think about it, because the solitude of the night made him cry if he thought about it a lot. Jaskier blinked rapidly and silently agreed with Geralt, tears came very quickly to him.</p><p>         And two, plead for permission. Permission to hide in the library until the books were known, by heart. And he was not going to be intimidated by anyone, not even Vesemir.</p><p>         With renewed resolve, he removed the blanket from his shoulders, so large that he had swept half a fortress with his stroll, and leaned down in rigorous silence, kneeling on the bench, to cover Lambert.</p><p>         Moving slower than tree roots, he slid the blanket from Lambert's ankles to his broad shoulders. Like the attack of a snake in the field grass, the rough hands went to his neck and squeezed as Lambert jumped off the table and fell on top of Jaskier, both hitting the cold ground.</p><p>         "DIE!"</p><p>         "SHIT!"</p><p>         Jaskier, his eyes wide as saucers, tried futilely to wriggle out of the iron grip and that murderous look of the man who had thrown himself on him. With his hands he scratched Lambert's and kicked his lower back with all his might, but with the Witcher tucked between his legs, there was no way out of it. The air was running out in his lungs.</p><p>         Lambert burst out laughing, applauding his own joke and thus releasing Jaskier from his grip. He sat back, shaking with laughter, in such a way that Jaskier laid there open-legged with each leg on top of a thick muscular thigh. Startled like a deer in the lights but most of all, scared shitless, cold sweat turned into fury and he kicked Lambert’s chin with his feet, bearing the pain.</p><p>         The man, in shock, fell backwards now, hitting his head against the bench, and they looked at each other, in silence, wide-eyed, laying there without an ounce of dignity in the middle of the kitchen’s dirty floor. Then Lambert started laughing again, short and coarse this time, then spoke.</p><p>         “Look at that! She fights back!” he waved hello, managing to convey disdain. “Hello, princess, was the wedding night not satisfactory? Come for more?”</p><p>         “Before I bedded you, I'd rather feed my prick to a gang of hungry pox-ridden rats.” Spat Jaskier, scrambling to get up and shake off the remnants of fear from his shaking hands.</p><p>         Ignoring Lambert’s amused stare as he leaned against the bench with his elbows on it for support, Jaskier snatched the blanket from the table and wrapped it around himself in dramatical fashion, making the flames dance with the gust of air. As he stomped out of the kitchen area, he turned around once more and look down at Lambert, who had dropped his head back to follow him with his eyes.</p><p><em>         I fucking hate that smirk,</em> thought Jaskier, and just for the sake of letting all rage out of his chest, he proclaimed, pointing his finger at him;</p><p>         “Who would, by the way, offer better pillow talk than all the poor whores who, in all their professional experience, were probably rendered speechless at the sight of you being a huge dick only by metaphor.”</p><p>         A short silence followed, not tense but strange, as Lambert’s mischievous smile didn’t falter. He squinted and Jaskier held his ground, with pursed lips and heaving breath. Then Lambert let out a soft chuckle, turned his head to the fire and fetched the bottle from the table with an outstretched hand.</p><p>         “Don’t forget your candle.” He said, calmly, and brought the lip of the bottle to his own.</p><p>         Jaskier, grinding his teeth, stomped back a few steps, grabbed the plate with more energy than required, and walked away. When he got to the huge arch that separated the kitchen from the hall, the main door was slammed open and then closed and in the poorly lit entryway, someone with a pleasant yet gruff voice screamed as they headed towards Jaskier, clearly as angered as the bard himself and also stomping in all their mighty.</p><p>         “Damn it all to hell! The blizzard, those lowlifes and this cunt of a mountain. Fuck, I'm freezing!” the man came close enough to the kitchen that the firelight illuminated his features and Jaskier nearly dropped the candle in shock.</p><p>         Scars like a shattered lightning bolt crossed the left side of his face, cut through his lip and nearly his eye. They were deep and red and if Jaskier was a child, he was sure he'd have thought him more monster than man.</p><p>         Chestnut hair parted amidst and brushed back, long enough to reach the nape of his neck, was revealed as he pushed the hood back. Down the right side, blood dripped and made it stick to the skull. Then his eyes locked with Jaskier's as his hands undid the clasps of the winter coat, which the snow had soaked.</p><p>         "And just who in the whole bloody continent are you?" his face went from fury to utmost confusion with his thick brows furrowing and his wide nose wrinkling.</p><p>         "Calm down, Eskel. Don't want to wake up the old man, do you?"</p><p>         "Jaskier. I'm Jaskier" was whispered.</p><p>         "Well, Jaskier, care to step out of the way to the fire?" said Eskel, not quite rude but also not patient, with enough force to make Jaskier jump out of his way, nearly tripping with the blanket, as he stormed past him, dropping the cloak behind him.</p><p>         Jaskier held onto the arch's pillar and, in lack of any better options, stayed. A few blood drops fell onto the tiles as they unfroze and blended in with their red colour. Red was the Witcher's armour as well, with stripes of black and both pointy and rounded tacks.</p><p>         The rolled-up cuffs were yellowish, maybe dirty or old, and left in sight a grey long sleeve shirt and fingerless gloves. The man, Eskel, placed his hands in front of the fire and rubbed them together, crouching close to it. He didn't behave like an injured man, even as his right side was splashed with blood so badly his tight leather pants looked wet with it.</p><p>         “Found problems along the way?” Lambert passed the bottle onto him, and Eskel drank greedily until there was nothing left, then let the bottle roll away.</p><p>         “When don't I? A bunch of Kaedwen's soldiers. Not many, maybe seven.”</p><p>         “Up here?” questioned Lambert, incredulous. He stretched out his legs and got comfortable, laying there against the bench. Jaskier inched closer so he might listen to their whispered conversation.</p><p>         “A good few hours away. Said something about their group having split, I don't know. They wanted my coin, those fucktards. Tried to take it by force" he chuckled in an arrogant manner, which Jaskier guessed was fair. “You can guess how that went.”</p><p>         “Why let them follow you so far up?”</p><p>         “I didn’t. They were there already.” He shrugged. “I saw them too, the tracks in the snow. A horse and a man. No wonder they found the right path”</p><p>         “Geralt, yes.” Lambert nodded and followed Eskel with his eyes as the man lifted the tarp and took a piece of bread and a wedge of cheese and made quick use of them, leaning against the creaking wooden structure.</p><p>         “Guess we all thought of getting here early.” Eskel’s eyes went from Lambert to Jaskier who still stood there, poorly hidden by the pillar. “We don’t bite, come.”</p><p>         “No, you strangle.” Muttered Jaskier under his breath. Lambert let out a cackle and twisted around to look at him with playful eyes, playful like a wolf’s cub. Jaskier had no desires to test whether or not he’d bite, regardless of Eskel’s reassurance.</p><p>         “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Eskel, shooting an inquisitive glance at his brother in arms but clearly amused. “Friend of yours?”</p><p>         “Oh, hell no.” denied Lambert. “More like Geralt’s. Though I like him, he’s feisty. Don’t know <em>why</em> he’s here, if that’s what you mean. Vesemir agreed to let him rest first.”</p><p>         “Which he’s not doing. Interesting.” Noted Eskel, then rose from where he was leaning with a bite to the cheese. He approached Jaskier with an honest smile than dispelled the terrifying atmosphere his scars gave him.</p><p>         The bard’s shoulders unclenched, and he let himself smile too. He shook the offered hand, hoping that his gawking didn’t come off as impolite. Jaskier had never seen someone be both scary and charming, until now.</p><p>         “Hello, again.”</p><p>         “Hello.” The Witcher brought a hand to his chest. “Eskel. Sorry for bumping past you, that blizzard nearly froze me in place.”</p><p>         “Did you… kill them?”</p><p>         “The soldiers? Yes. They attacked me first.” He shrugged, offering a chunk of bread and cheese to Jaskier which he took with a thankful nod.</p><p>         “Was there… a young boy? Barely a man. This tall.” Jaskier gesticulated “Blonde hair, like straw. An archer.”</p><p>         “Yes, I remember him.” Eskel nodded, walking back to the fire, beckoning the bard to follow him with a smile and a hand move. He followed and cast Lambert a side glance, wary, as he sat in the bench by his side. The man only wiggled his bushy eyebrows at him, comfortable in the floor. “Was the first to shoot. Is not rare to see young man going feral and vengeful when life doesn’t go the way they planned.”</p><p>         “Ey.” Growled Lambert, losing his smile as he glared at Eskel who only smiled at him, sitting by the fire. Jaskier figured something was flying over his head, some story only those two knew.</p><p>         “Sometimes, even as they become insufferable bastards, they still keep their heart at hand.” Said the Witcher, looking his brother in arms in the eye with such intensity that even Jaskier felt like he ought to look away. Lambert certainly did, with a huff. “But sometimes… they just hide their heart away. Which leads me to, how did <em>you</em> become Geralt’s friend?”</p><p>         Friend. It still sounded strange, maybe inaccurate, but it was the simplest way to put it. Jaskier couldn’t know if the other Wolves had heard their private conversation or if they were used to ignoring that which wasn’t meant to be for them, but Eskel for sure hadn’t.</p><p>         Jaskier finished eating and cleared his throat. Caressing the edge of the plate that rested on his lap, unsure of what to answer, he chose to stay true to the facts.</p><p>         “I met Geralt in Upper Posada, a hamlet in Dol Blathanna. Long story short, I was <em>delighting</em> the people with my <em>marvellous</em> singing when I spotted a brooding figure in the furthest darkest corner, ale in hand.” His hand gestured over there at the cobwebs and he stood up promptly and walked around the kitchen, leaving the candle behind. “I rose up to the challenge of alleviating his misery with my pleasant company which was… turned down, rather… bluntly...”</p><p>         “And this is the short version?” snickered Lambert, but Jaskier kept talking, clearly overcome with the joy of finally having a proper conversation. Or the chance to speak, at the very least. More so, act out his memories, with a pinch of poetical license. </p><p>         “Not one to abandon a task, however herculean in difficulty, I quickly caught up with our beloved brooding Witcher on the road and offered my humble yet unparalleled services as his barker.” His broad smile and grandiose gesturing were brought to a halt as he hesitated, pursed his lips for a second and fidgeted, then added. “I got unfairly punch in the guts, but that’s fine. Occupational hazards.”</p><p>         He shrugged, regained his bravado and even went as far as dropping the blanket to the table so it wouldn’t constrict his motions, which he very much needed to bring his story to life. The Witchers exchanged a look between amusement and confusion.</p><p>         “The story then sets sail, as we, together as a team, reached the vast dangerous expanse that were the wheat fields. In there, we were attacked and ambushed by a massive group of elves, all thought we fought back fiercely…” Lambert’s arched brow brought him back to the ground and he cleared his throat and regained some composure, getting is foot off the bench where he had placed it for emphasis and lowering his risen fist. “Geralt did. There were… three… elves. And we were distracted by a goat-man. I got hit before that… in the head… so I… didn’t really see what happened. I fainted”</p><p>         “How unexpected” prodded Lambert, heavy with sarcasm. Eskel threw the cheese’s rind his way but it was swatted away without effort.</p><p>         “In the end, Geralt convinced them to release us.” Jaskier recalled the meaningful conversations exchanged as they were held hostage. He dropped the act of grandeur rather brusquely. “They were good people, those elves. Most of them, anyway. And rightfully angered, I’d say. But well, not much to be done about… all of it, is there?”</p><p>         The mood sobered as each man thought of those words and what went without saying. Eskel cleared his throat to break the silence and stood up.</p><p>         “Sounds like you had fun.” He smiled, then gave Jaskier a meticulous onceover that had him trying not to squirm in place. The bard still hadn’t found the strength to tear his gaze away from those eyes. He had seen them before, obviously, but never with such amiable liveliness “So, you’ve been travelling with Geralt? That’s quite a challenge. Don’t think anyone has ever done that.”</p><p>         “Oh, no, I’ve not.” Jaskier was quick to clarify, regaining the pomposity that came so natural to him in broad gestures and vivid tone. “That happened roughly ten months ago. We’ve crossed paths every now and then. As a bard, I’m always on the hunt for stories to tell and in my humble opinion, Geralt could use some socialising.”</p><p>         “Like an ill-mannered pup, he could.” Laughed Lambert, in agreement.</p><p>         “Tch, he’s not so bad.” Disagreed Eskel, crossing his arms but still smiling, and staring at Jaskier, as if he found him beyond interesting.</p><p>         “Not to us. Definitely not to you. But the man is grumpy, can’t deny that.”</p><p>         “You’re just too young to understand.”</p><p>         Eskel finally turned around and Jaskier felt like something, some sort of kinetic energy, was pulled from him, sucked out of him, as they broke eye contact. He took a discreet deep breath. Rare was the occasion when someone gave him undivided attention and he’d be lying if he didn’t say he thrived under it. A small smile curved his lips. It had been months of loneliness, after all. The coals of worry relighted in his stomach. <em>Little Eye. Are you lonely Little Eye? </em>He shook his head, he had to be strong the way she surely was being.</p><p>         With a strange flourish, Eskel placed his hand above the water and in a split second, it was bowling. Jaskier blinked, shocked out of his thoughts.</p><p>         “How did…?”</p><p>         “Igni. Witcher’s magic. We call them Signs. Some of us are more adept, capable, if you will, to cast them.”</p><p>         “Keep strutting and feathers will come out of your ass one day”</p><p>         “Better than shit from my mouth.” Eskel bit back and Lambert cackled, proudly showing off his fanged smile.</p><p>         Next to the bathtub, he began to undress. His jacket, grey sweater and undershirt fell in a heap at his feet. There were quite a few scars on his body, especially on his arm and there were some that crossed his chest as a continuation of those on his face.</p><p>         “So you’re a bard, I gather.”</p><p>         “Yes. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, but most famously known as Jaskier, bard, poet and minstrel. I'm the proud creator of-”</p><p>         “Toss a Coin! I <em>knew </em>your name sounded familiar!” shouted Lambert all of a sudden, even as Eskel shushed him, and turned to his side to look up at Jaskier with a side smile. “Heard you got a thing for finding your way into lady’s boudoirs. Care to share a story or two?”</p><p>         “Quite a name indeed. But not sure that’s something a Viscount should share.” Eskel finally untied all the knots in his belt and pealed off the pants from his strong legs, after unlacing and kicking off his boots.</p><p>         “It’s not something anyone should share. It’s vulgar, unfair and unnecessary.” Said Jakier, speaking sharply. Lambert, once again, only had a mischievous smile to offer. He didn’t seem to particularly care whether someone agreed with him or not, but only about how they did so. Their spirit. Jaskier was nothing if not spirited. “And may I add, it’s not lust, as you imply. It’s something else. The communion of two hearts, however short or pointless in the long run. It was never about <em>tits</em>.”</p><p>         “A romantic!” laughed Lambert. “A romantic that follows a Witcher. You really don’t like it easy, uh?”</p><p>         Eskel grabbed the bundle of clothes and threw them to the water. It quickly turned red. Then he went back to sit by the fire. Lambert squinted his eyes and halted Jaskier’s retort with a raised hand. He had learnt to keep quiet when a Witcher made that face.</p><p>         “Uh, oh. We’ve awakened the beast.”</p><p>         “What else did you expect?” came a voice from the stairs. Jaskier quickly turned to look, try and guess who was in the shadows, even as he would recognise that voice anywhere at any given time. “Throwing up a slumber party… why don’t you go find a court? It’d suit you better than Kaer Morhen.”</p><p>         “Geralt! Gods, I’ve missed your shitty humour. Come here, brother.”</p><p>         Coming out of the shadows, a familiar silver hair, now let loose, and a smile like Jaskier had never seen him. Nearly childish in its width; raw and welcoming. A grin of camaraderie speaking in the name of years upon years of affection and shared hardships, even if worlds apart at times. Jaskier nearly felt like a trespasser, watching the way they held each other tight in their arms, closing their eyes and breathing in the other.</p><p>         He was sure they must had strained their shoulders in doing so, he  could see the way the muscles all through the chest and arms of Eskel tensed to embrace Geralt.</p><p>         Pieces of a puzzle, born from the same mould, meant to fit together and they did so perfectly. Similar in height and form and built, with identical eyes that let them speak to one another in silence as they rested their hands in the other's shoulders and pressed their foreheads together.</p><p>         "No cuddling for me?"  joked Lambert, raising from the floor and dusting off his ass with his broad hands. Jaskier, unconsciously, walked closer to the man, as from behind Geralt surged Vesemir.</p><p>         "Since nobody here seems to have an ounce of respect for my rest, let's deal with the problem right away." he rose his wrinkled hand and pointed at Jaskier, who shuddered. All eyes fell on him, predatory and unnatural as they were. "You, speak. Why are you here?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Wraith.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>          They sat around the table. Lambert made it clear that he had little interest in the conversation by leaning his head against his clenched fist and looking as if he wanted to go back to sleep. He even yawned blatantly. Jaskier, deciding to spare himself the sidelong glance, looked straight ahead at Vesemir sitting across the table.</p><p>          To his right, Geralt sat with his elbows on the table and his fingers intertwined and his golden feline eyes watching Jaskier closely above them. Eskel, sitting next to him, crossed his arms on the table and let his gaze travel between Vesemir and Jaskier.</p><p>          The old wolf, stoic and indecipherable, gestured for the guest to start talking.</p><p>          “It happened three months ago…”</p><p>          “Another story?” Lambert let out a huff of boredom and leaned back, pulling a face of disgust. Geralt glared at him, but it was Vesemir that made him sit back straight.</p><p>          “Quiet. Or leave.” He said, short and sharp, like the order it was. Lambert looked like he had something to say, but Geralt let down his hands slowly, looking at him with a stern face. Then Vesemir nodded to Jaskier. “Continue.”</p><p>          “My childhood friend, Essi Daven, who you may know as Blackjack or Little Eye, whether you know of her songs or of her beauty, met me in Carreras as we had promised to do when autumn came.” Jaskier moved the candle to the side and in the empty space of the table started dragging his finger through the wood to represent their walked path. “We had heard warnings about heading south, but we ignored them. Who would bother two bards? In Maribord, we learnt that Nilfgaard and the Northern kingdoms were reading their armies, both too wary of the other to stand idle.”</p><p>          “The Second Northern War. Yes, it has already been named” Vesemir conceded. He didn’t look at the table once. His gaze, rational and cold, seemed to find more information from Jaskier’s face, which he tried to keep neutral and formal, but knew his eyes already betrayed the pain in his heart.</p><p>          “It unleashed quite fast. Not sure what prompted it, don’t care either. We were on the Old Road when the Nilfgaardian army took Cintra. And we still didn’t turn around.”</p><p>          “I’m getting a picture of where this is going,” Lambert whispered loud enough to be heard, then, with a smaller yawn, he rested his head on his crossed arms and, as the rest, listened to Jaskier.</p><p>          “It’s not an uncommon story, in times of war.” Jaskier swallowed hard, blinked fast and kept moving his finger under Geralt’s and Eskel’s gaze. “We reached Brugge and for two or three days, as we slowly became aware that war had indeed started, and was creeping up north, things were relatively calm. Then they appeared… some scouts, or a small war party, I don’t know. We tried to run. I lost them but Essi… was captured.”</p><p>          “You left her behind?” Lambert snorted, raising his brows and looking at Jaskier with disdain. “What a coward move.”</p><p>          “Lambert.” Geralt growled, clenching his fists on the table. Jaskier lowered his gaze and closed his eyes tight, breathing in deep. Eskel shook his head and directed his subtle frown of disappointment to Lambert.</p><p>          “What?” spat the youngest, raising his hands in a gesture of confusion.</p><p>          “Shut your mouth, or I will shut it.” Geralt warned and they stared at each other for a split second, like wolves with bared teeth, before Lambert tsked and lowered his gaze. Jaskier rose his head again, slowly but firmly, and spoke not to Lambert, but to Vesemir.</p><p>          “It’s fine. It <em>was</em> a coward move. I didn’t mean to, but it was. I just kept running away from their horses and their swords and the vile things they screamed they’d do to us.” He licked his lips and looked away, uncapable of holding up against the cold eyes, although he tried.</p><p>          He had nightmares nearly every night where those promises came true and all he could do was watch. Whips on her back, men between her legs, starved, abandoned to die tied to a tree, bleeding out, made a sex slave or forced to work until she died from exhaustion. They had been quite descriptive with their plans. Jaskier took in a breath and let it out, glancing at Geralt. He nodded in encouragement, or so Jaskier wanted to believe. <em>Needed </em>to believe.</p><p>          “Which is why it’s more so my responsibility to rescue her.” He stated to Vesemir.</p><p>          The old wolf, whose hands rested on top of one another in the table, took them back onto his lap and rose his chin. His squinted eyes weren’t of disdain or distrust, he simply seemed to be taking the implication of those words in.</p><p>          “Rescue her? That’s no easy task for a bard.” Eskel weighted in as the silence stretched.</p><p>          Jaskier knew that, of course he did, but it still made him purse his lip and look down. He knew he stood no chance. Vesemir then spoke, adding to Eskel’s words.</p><p>          “Nor has anything to do with us.” He seemed ready to stand up and walk away, he certainly made the move for it.</p><p>          Jaskier, who had had this conversation in his head a thousand times, didn’t miss a beat. He rose up faster and planted both hands on the table confidently which halted Vesemir’s attempt.</p><p>          The bard gulped as that old man, who for sure wasn’t used to being ordered around, arched a brow and stared at him with something that wasn’t quite a glare, but didn’t fall far from it.</p><p>        Geralt’s shoulders tensed and there was the sound of boots against tiles as he readied himself to stand up fast if needed. Eskel looked at his childhood friend, then over to Jaskier’s determination and then Lambert, who was sporting a smile of malicious joy. Uncertain of what to do, he waited for Jaskier to speak.</p><p>          “Politely, Sir Witcher, I beg to differ. Please, hear me out.” He begged.</p><p>          Vesemir let some silence pass and then, he sat back down and placed both hands on the table again. Geralt looked away from his mentor and back to Jaskier. Eskel closed his eyes for a split second, perhaps thanking some god.</p><p>          Lambert gave a nod of impressed approval, like he had expected a totally different ending and congratulated Jaskier on doing the impossible.</p><p>          “When my heart wasn’t racing anymore and the realization of what had happened… what I had let happen, took over me… I went south.”</p><p>          “Jaskier, you could have died.” Geralt quickly said, his face going from wary to worried, as subtle as the change was. There was also anger behind his frown, condemning the risk taken.</p><p>          “I know. And maybe it’d have been better for all of you, but I didn’t. Even as things quickly fell apart, nobody cared about a bard walking his way through war-torn villages. The army moved north, where the battle intensified at Temeria and Lyria.” Jaskier didn’t sit down, instead, he gathered his courage for what he had now to say, even if against the knot in his throat and the stones in his stomach. “Their banners of sixteen sunrays left behind destruction and woe they cared not about. They wouldn’t go after me.”</p><p>          Geralt let out a short growl and glared at Jaskier as if that could change the past, clenching his fists, pressing them against the table. Vesemir’s gaze quickly turned from Jaskier to Geralt, fast like a whip. He looked at the raging gold and listened to the accelerated heartbeat only a Witcher could hear.</p><p>          Eskel, with eyes subtly opened in surprise, did the same. Even Lambert was shocked enough to rise his head from the table, and he didn’t care letting it show. Jaskier, with his lips turned into a tight line so as not let out a single pitiful sound, endured Geralt’s anger.</p><p>          “War brings out the worst in people. You could have still died, gutted by a criminal or by a mob of hungry children with stones. You should have walked away.”</p><p>          Jaskier’s lips turned into a sad little smile as he tilted his head slightly to the side and asked with a cry-torn voice, even as tears still hadn’t fallen from his eyes.</p><p>          “Again? No, I couldn’t bring myself to do that.” He shook his head gently.</p><p>          Geralt, by witnessing the pain in those eyes he had always known to be bright and vivid, forced himself to relax and scare away the tension he had brought to the kitchen.</p><p>          The guilt of the survivor hit too close to home. He found he had nothing to say that could matter, so he waited for Jaskier to regain his composure which was coming undone at the edges.</p><p>          The bard took in a deep breath, looked up and blinked in hopes of drying the tears, and nobody looked at him with nothing but respect.</p><p>          Jaskier continued, speaking softly to keep his cracking voice under control, but his sad smile was dampened by a stray tear. Eskel, uncomfortable, looked away, rubbing his nose. Vesemir and Lambert didn’t.</p><p>          “I heard news that they were taking prisoners. Way too many and not of great importance, so not for political reasons.” He shrugged and his sad smile widened before it faltered. The fast blinking dried the threatening tears away, or most of them. “Why would they need hostages for, anyway? They’re winning.”</p><p>          Silence overcame the kitchen as Jaskier sat back down, defeated by his own words, and held his head between his hands. Drops fell on the table and Lambert, who sat by his side, had the courtesy of looking away. Eskel cleared his throat and not quite sure where to look, he settled on the candle by the side. He played with the little flame with his fingers but otherwise remained calm and his tone clear and forthright when he spoke.</p><p>          “Cintra has been massacred. That’s true. Temeria is huge, hard to conquer, but Lyria is having a tough time holding their ground. I’d know, I came from Rivia.”   </p><p>          “Then you know too that they’re turning the prisoners into slaves. That’s the Nilfgaardian way of doing things, after all.”</p><p>          “Riedburne.” Said Vesemir, lowering his gaze pensively. The subtle frown caught Jaskier’s attention, who rose his head as the old Witcher spoke, and he hoped it meant the man was considering the petition.</p><p>          “Exactly.” He nodded, having wiped the tears away and regained some control of his voice.</p><p>          Jaskier exchanged a look with Geralt and the man’s eyes opened wide, guessing what Jaskier would now say. He looked away as Geralt shook his head in defeat and let his stern face show his disagreement only in the tight line of his lips. Jaskier spoke the truth anyway.</p><p>        “So that’s where I went when a weeping widow from Belhaven told me what they were making out of her neighbouring town. That’s where my dear Poppet is kept.”</p><p>          Lambert snorted, arched a brow and gestured with his hands in a questioning manner as he shrugged and carelessly said.</p><p>          “How would you know? Could have been just raped and killed.”</p><p>          “Lambert, I won’t warn you again.” Snarled Geralt, managing to get Lambert to shape his lips around an unspoken “sorry” that came off a little pedantic, like he knew he was supposed to say it but felt he had done the right thing by saying what everyone thought.</p><p>          “Have some tact, man.” Whispered Eskel, in a vastly gentler manner than Geralt and with a face of grimace very well concealed. He turned to Jaskier, letting the flame be. “But he’s got a point. Why torture yourself, she’s most likely dead”</p><p>          “She’s not. I went there, to Riedburne.” Said Jaskier.</p><p>          He looked Lambert in the eye for two purposes, proving him wrong -he would not allow anybody to sentence the fate of Little Eye so bashfully- and also because every glance Geralt threw his way, with eyes torn between worried anger and pity, his resolve not to cry crumbled a little more.</p><p>          “Jaskier.”</p><p>          “What would you have me do, Geralt? Hide and cry? What good would that do?”</p><p>          “What good would your death do? None either. You were stupid to do that”</p><p>          His tone was still hopelessly sharp, and it made Jaskier wince, even when he knew the anger wasn’t truly directed at him. Not in that way. He crossed his arms and didn’t try to hold his gaze, he simply started picking at the frayed cuffs of his doublet.</p><p>          “That’s what she said.” Jaskier admitted.</p><p>          “You met her?”</p><p>          He had. He met her again and again at night, too. Her big golden curls, the ones that always covered one of those eyes like shooting stars, earning her the name, had turned into greasy hair, matted and full of grime.</p><p>          When those eyes saw him, they had shone brightly and the girl, chained as she was, ran to meet him. They hid in a corner of the cave, wary of the guards, and hugged and talked.</p><p>          Her face was intact -too pretty to be ruined- but the bruises, shaped like fingers, began in her neck and spread across the bronzed skin that the tattered tunic showed. Her smile was not the same, Jaskier had noticed it just seeing her, and in their short conversation, he swore that he would save her.</p><p>          She had laughed; her laughter crystalline, like little bells, but now cold, incredulous. She stroked his face lovingly and begged him to leave with teary eyes, to leave her behind, to leave now, forever.</p><p>          In the south winter was coming, barefoot and poorly fed, Little Eye had fallen ill, but it was no excuse to stop working day and night, outside in the quarry or in the tents of the infantry. That was the last thing he knew about her.</p><p>          “I passed as a war drummer, back from duty in the frontlines. Their army is so large the general didn’t question it, he let me join their cavalcade to Riedburne without as much as a glance.”</p><p>          “You infiltrated their army? What a pair.”  Commended Lambert with a whistle, sitting straight for once, gaining interest on the story. Vesemir didn’t seem to care, his attention only swayed between Geralt and Jaskier.</p><p>          “Not for long. Just enough to figure out where they were keeping the prisoners. It wasn’t hard to guess, anyway. Once I got there, I only had to ready myself with enough courage to play my part and find her.”</p><p>          “No reason to hide slavery if it’s not illegal, I guess,” Eskel mentioned and the words were said in a matter of fact way.</p><p>          “Nilfgaard prides on their social hierarchy.” Agreed Geralt “Empires are not born naturally. Matters not. What did you see?”</p><p>          Jaskier stopped fidgeting with the frayed threads an</p><p>          “They had chains on their feet and hands, dressed in rags, scruffy, hungry and tired. Nothing new. I stayed there for long enough to still recall the crack of whips perfectly. People didn’t even cry anymore.”</p><p>          To keep the tears from falling, he had to let the shudders course his body freely as his voice cracked. Didn’t matter if that made Vesemir see him as weak, he had to tell the whole truth, in case it made a single soul show pity. Even if the memories made him tremble by the firelight, Jaskier, without much of a thought, searched for comfort in Geralt. The Witcher, from the other side of the table, with his face of stone, nodded subtly and said.  </p><p>          “Take your time.”</p><p>          But Jaskier didn’t want to take his time. He ought to get it out of his chest now, or he never would. A deep breath insulated enough force to go on, loud and clear. Sweeping with his eyes the face of all those present, demanding their attention, he spoke of what he had seen.</p><p>          “They were like… ghosts, they had given up. Hardly surprising. Mounted on their horses or hidden behind their armour, the Nilfgaardians kicked, spat and insulted their prisoners. I don't think there was a soul left there wanting to rebel.</p><p>          I tried to count how many people there were, but the bitterness overcame me before I could finish. Without a doubt, there are fewer soldiers than prisoners, but they are not few at all.”</p><p>          Not being strangers to the suffering of the common folk, the Witchers kept quiet. It wasn’t in their nature either to be overly compassionate. It was a hard reality, unfair and violent, but so was the reality of a Witcher. They lacked the empathy a normal person would have, both due to the mutations but also simply by having grown used to it.</p><p>          They had learned to acknowledge the cruelty of the world and let it pass by them like a rat on the streets. Unwanted, gruesome but, essentially, part of the picture.</p><p>          Didn’t mean, however, that a Witcher couldn’t know what the right thing to say was, whether they felt it or not.</p><p>          “It’s still been long since you saw her. I don’t mean to hurt you with my words. I merely say this so that you don’t embark yourself into a suicide mission.” Said Eskel, as gentle as such a hard truth could be. But Jaskier shook his head.</p><p>          “Little Eye is strong, always has been. I know her mind has kept her standing.” He tried to go on but was interrupted.</p><p>          “Pf, that’s what you want to belief. She’s food for the worms already.” Shrugged Lambert.</p><p>          Geralt rose up abruptly, fists banged on the table and a feral look on his face. Jaskier winced, startled. A hand went to curl around the wide biceps in a calming gesture and Eskel tried to pull Geralt down to no avail.</p><p>          All that Lambert did was stand up for the challenge, slowly. Jaskier, wide eyed, looked between them and pressed his hands close to his chest. The shock had slapped away the pain of Lambert’s hard words, regardless of how honest they were.</p><p>          “Enough. Sit down right now.” Roared Vesemir, managing to sound composed still. Geralt sat down slowly right away and Eskel moved the hand to his back to offer a little rub. Jaskier breathed easier as Geralt allowed the gesture to calm him.</p><p>          Lambert, on the other hand, seemed to have reached the end of his patience. Jaskier was starting to see there was a flaring resent he carried against the oldest Witcher, like he hadn’t quite forgiven him for something and this grudge sneaked its way into every crack of their tumultuous relationship.</p><p>          “The story touched your little heart, old man? Hits too close to home?” he spat without a care, condescending in tone.</p><p>          It earned him a glare and a growl from his brothers and Vesemir, however calm and collected he remained, oozed an area of rage. Jaskier tried to make himself as small as possible.</p><p>          “Don’t pretend you have a heart. You didn’t bat an eye to twelve tortured and killed children, but you care about a woman you’ve not even met.” He turned to Jaskier, his unshed tears and his terrified gaze and simply proclaimed, suddenly soft yet sharp, leaving no room for debate. “That’s war. I’m sorry. She’s dead. And I’m not drunk enough to deal with this shit. With all due respect, go cry a river elsewhere.”</p><p>          He got out of the bench, threw one last look at the other Wolves and huffed in disbelief, shook his head, then quickly walked away from the kitchen.</p><p>          Jaskier, with his racing heart as if it were stuck on his throat and his trembling hands, didn’t know what to do, so he just took his hands from his chest to the table and tried to calm down.</p><p>          This wasn’t the time nor place to cry or complain. He had come for an answer, for a favour, and if he let his heart get in the way of his mind, then it’d have been all for nothing.</p><p>          Eskel, who seemed to be quite adept at finding the right thing to say when tension grew uncomfortable, offered his two cents.</p><p>          “Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t mean it. He… has a hard a time showing empathy.”</p><p>          “Whatever he can say, I’ve already heard.” Answered Jaskier, meeting Vesemir’s eyes again. The old Wolf had an imperturbable face, but he had yet to stand up and leave.</p><p>          The bard refused to let it all go to waste. So he grabbed at his sorrow, his fear, his guilt and all the things that made him human and twisted them tight enough to fit them into the gap in his stomach.</p><p>          “I’m not naïve. I know she might be dead. But she might also not be. Which is why I’m here.”</p><p>          “We are Witchers, boy. We can’t and won’t interfere with the war.” Reminded him Vesemir.</p><p>          Jaskier nodded and cleared his throat. He let his blue eyes channel the fire he felt within, which burnt, hurt, and would leave a scar, but that had kept him alive through the winter cold and the nightmares. A fire he knew lived in Little Eye too.</p><p>          “I know. I don’t expect you to go set Riedburne free, if such a thing is even possible. I came here to ask for a more selfish favour.”</p><p>          Geralt’s eyes opened wide and his frown deepened, betraying his cold façade, as realization dawned on him. Eskel shot him a questioning look, taking the hand of his back. He sensed this wasn’t something he should interfere with.  </p><p>          “Jaskier, it can’t be done…”  Geralt tried to say but Jaskier quickly turned to him like an angered snake and pointed an accusatory finger to him.</p><p>          “No! You promised me. You said it! You said you’d do anything in your power!”</p><p>          Vesemir turned to look at Geralt whose face had gone back to stone but his tone let through the disconcert he felt within. What Jaskier asked was nearly a miracle, a death wish.</p><p>          “Even if I did, if I tried, how? How do you expect us to rescue Little Eye?”</p><p>          Jaskier answered his question before it had been fully spoken, showing how much thought he had given it all. He gestured vividly, trying to convey his determination.</p><p>          “When spring comes, as the first harvest approaches, they’ll move them down all the way through Toussaint and Geso. And at Thurn, they plan to divide those still alive and fit for work, and send them across the empire.”</p><p>          “You want us to intercept them when they part ways, when they’re not as many soldiers and it’s easier to find Little Eye. It’s clever.”</p><p>          “Yes!”</p><p>          “No.” Vesemir spat.</p><p>          And he stood up and turned away.</p><p>          Jaskier froze in place, letting out a shaky breath as his strength quivered. Then he sprung to action again, limping after the man and reaching out to clasp his hands around his wrinkled one. He went to his knees, hitting the cold tiles, and bowed his head pressing his forehead to the bony knuckles.</p><p>          “Sir, plea- “</p><p>          “I said no.” he took his hand away, not with violence but with determination. “And stop this, I’m not a king you can beg to.”</p><p>           Jaskier let his hands fall to the tiles and clenched them in fists, fighting hard not to see Little Eye behind his closed eyes, nor the bruises in her neck or the apathy in her laugh. Vesemir went on;</p><p>          “We won’t go past battlefield after battlefield to hostile territories so that we may, at best, rescue one woman. I wish death weren’t faith’s love language, but things are the way they are. And they are not for Witchers to fix.”</p><p>          “I gave my word, Vesemir.” Informed Geralt, raising up and turning around. Willing to face the consequences, he squared his shoulders and looked his mentor in the eye.</p><p>          Eskel stayed put, with his back turned to them.</p><p>          “Then take it back. You’re a Witcher of the School of the Wolf. There’s barely any of us left, I won’t send my pupils to die pointlessly.”</p><p>          “How is a more meaningful death to be speared by a kikimora at old age than to defend the innocent? Answer me the question you <em>always</em> refused to. Why can’t a Witcher choose good? Why must we exist between evils?”</p><p>          “You’ve lost your focus by hearing one too many humans debate right or wrong. You let it into your head.” He placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders and forced him to stand up again, without taking his eyes of the grown boy he had promised to rise as a son. “Hear me out, Geralt. This is not your war. I can’t force you to stay, but I hope I won’t have to. I’m sorry, Jaskier, but you came to the wrong place.”</p><p>          He walked away. The shadows had nearly engulfed him completely when Jaskier chose to let go of the truth, of what he had seen. Of what everybody knew already, anyway. That which a man like Vesemir, who had been forced through his own hell and everybody else’s, couldn’t care about.</p><p>          Instead, he lost his temper and his carefully crafted plan, and let his thoughts loose and free so he might speak his mind.</p><p>          “I want to believe I didn’t” Jaskier shouted, sure of himself.</p><p>          “You waste your time.” Vesemir, however, stopped.</p><p>          “You take me for a fool. That doesn’t make me foolish.” Jaskier went on as those golden eyes watched him over a shoulder “Witcher’s are not heartless. I know Geralt takes contracts he knows he’ll be paid shit for, to keep others out of danger.”</p><p>          “He shouldn’t.”</p><p>        “And Witchers have been known to save people they didn’t even know with only the Law of Surpirse as payback.” Jaskier let his desperation control him, taking long strides into the shadows and gesturing in an accusatory manner.</p><p>          Vesemir faced him then but that didn’t stop Jaskier, panting and with his face turned into a canvas for rivulets of tears, who met his cold face with his emotion-ruled one.</p><p>          “To get children marked by destiny.”</p><p>          “Not all of us are. I’m not.” Geralt said from the table.</p><p>          “Most of the time, we get shit anyway.” Eskel added, which made Vesemir frown and twist his lips in disappoint.</p><p>          “Why the hell are you on their side?” He barked to the naked back of his pupil who did not dare to meet his gaze and yet, as he stood and walked further away towards the fire, Eskel answered Vesemir.</p><p>          “Because he’s got a point. It’s something we can do and honestly, who’d care? Nobody will come after us if we help one woman. I know I let you down by saying this, but I am tired of being told what I should do by people who sit on their hands. You haven’t seen what they’ve done of Rivia. It’s hell on land.”  </p><p>          “I can’t believe my own ears. You’ve all lost your head.”</p><p>          Jaskier stepped in Vesemir’s line vision and gather his courage to say what he knew would enrage even Vesemir.</p><p>          “Your kind is cast aside, insulted, stoned, but you <em>never</em> attack first. You don’t kill sentient creatures, isn’t that right? because you respect the right to live of those who do no harm. Essi has done no harm.”</p><p>          “<em>You</em> dare invoke a Witcher’s code? What could you possibly know about that?”</p><p>          Jaskier didn’t move when Vesemir came closer, he let his blue eyes show their fear to the golden ones, but also his resolve and his honesty.</p><p>          “Nothing. Nothing at all. But I know you went through hell and back to become what you are for the sake of people who <em>hate</em> what you are.”</p><p>          In one last act of bravery, or insanity perhaps, Jaskier placed his hand on the chest of the old man and with a soft tone, barely a whisper, spoke.  </p><p>          “All I ask, Vesemir, is this; have you ever loved someone so much, you couldn’t go back to your life if they died?</p><p>          You may be a Witcher, but you’re also a man. Deep down, you’re still a man. And I know you wish you weren’t because you hate them, rightfully so. But in there is a beating heart. Slow, strange, mutated and scarred, but alive.</p><p>          So, in the name of love, let me be naïve. Help me find Little Eye. Let me be selfish and snatch her away from the claws of death and the greed of coin and faith that stops at nothing. If you’ve ever loved, don’t make me give up on her.”</p><p>          Tears had wetted his cheeks, the collar of his doublet and his voice. They made his eyes twinkle in the saddest of ways as they searched for a glimmer of hope in that face of stone that looked back at him.</p><p>          In that face of feline eyes there was no frown anymore, no coldness in its gaze or disappointment twisting lips. Indecipherable as it was, the touch of a wrinkled strong hand was gentle as it pushed away Jaskier’s own from his chest.</p><p>          The bard listened to the Witcher, like a rabbit about to be pierced by a wicked arrow.</p><p>          “I can’t speak in the name of the rest. And I have nothing to speak in my own. You’ve got a clever way with words, Jaskier. I’ll give you that.”</p><p>          And then, the arrow misses. The rabbit leaves and lives and with him, hope for the prey, for the weak, for those who do no harm. There’s hunger in the world and hungry is the beast of war, but Jaskier thought, relieved, that wolves only hunt when they’re hungry.</p><p>          Vesemir was gone and seconds, hours, days pass before a hand fell to his shoulder and squeezed once before it slides off the edge.</p><p>          “I stand by what I said.”</p><p>          “Thank you, Geralt.” He answered to the formal, cold words. The intention behind them was heartfelt and warm, and he let a hand in his back guide him back to the fires where Eskel sat down.</p><p>          “This has been… quite a conversation.”</p><p>          “I don’t expect you to answer right away, Eskel. Or at all. But I had to try.” Jaskier knew he was speaking, he heard his own voice, but it felt somebody else’s. Just another conversation he had already had. “The nobles can’t spare forces in seek of the prisoners. The common folk can’t do anything but die. But a Witcher is both powerful and independent, and I’d like to think, kind-hearted.”</p><p>          “Whatever happens, I’m sorry. I wish you luck.” Jaskier couldn’t see his face because he was turned around and when he walked past them, Eskel didn’t look at them. “Good night, or what’s left of it.”</p><p>          “Good night.” Geralt said.</p><p>          Jaskier dropped by the fire and watched the flames absently. He didn’t register their warmth or the coldness of the tiles or the pain in his feet. He was just there. With unfocused gaze and even breath, he didn’t move when Geralt sat by his side.  </p><p>          Eskel didn’t take long. In silence, he took his clothes from the water and twisted them between his hands so the water would drip onto the surface of the bathtub and disrupt it with a soft, melodic sound. He put his head underwater and washed away the blood before he left, barefoot and silent.</p><p>          Tears fell from Jaskier’s face, fat and fast from his calm eyes, to his lap and the back of his hands. He turned his hands over and blinked. With his fingers he smeared new ones across his palms.</p><p>          The calm of an extinct pyre ruled him, and it seemed that the smoke had gotten into his eyes because he couldn't stop crying. When someone is burned but no one stays long enough to collect the bones, there is quiet. Nobody is let in the town square. Not in Jaskier's mind. Not even he’s there, just his bones.</p><p>          He did not whimper between shudders; he only drew patterns with the tears on his skin and thus melted them and they were lost, and he no longer had to look at them. It's okay. He has seen enough; he did not want to see more.</p><p>          Jaskier trembled a little less when Geralt caught his chin with one hand and put his arm around his shoulders and turned his face so he couldn't look.</p><p>          Geralt, who is not Eskel, didn't know what was expected of him, but he knew what he wants to do. With the care with which one picks up the crystals of a broken mirror, he drew him against his chest and let his delicate hands wrinkle the fabric of his shirt. The tears that kept falling, much like summer rain, not like a broken dam, wet Witcher's chest.</p><p>          And then the hesitant hands still hooked on his shirt pulled as if angered but without force. They wanted to pull away and push him away but instead, they pulled them closer and maybe that was the right thing to do because Jaskier whispered, defeated.</p><p>          “You don’t have to.”</p><p>          “I want to.”</p><p>          “Don’t.” Jaskier cried softly and pulled with his hands again and Geralt let him move him back and forth. “Don’t lie to me know.”</p><p>          “I’m not”</p><p>          He wanted to believe he was not. Even as uncertainty filled his every move, surprised that he wanted anything at all so fiercely it scared him. Geralt put his mask on to feel safe and keep control.</p><p>          “I can’t take it.”</p><p>
  <em>          The denial? The truth? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>          The future or the past? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>          The pain or the hope? </em>
</p><p>          Geralt didn’t know but if Jaskier said he’d crumble under the weight, then Geralt wanted to share it. And if it buried them both nobody would be there to collect the bones, but there’d be calm.</p><p>          He took the hands in his own and rubbed the pain away from the scratches he was sure Jaskier couldn’t see through the tears.</p><p>          “I know.” Geralt said, even if he didn’t.</p><p>        Jaskier went quiet again with his head tucked under Geralt’s chin and all the Witcher could do was hold him in a tight embrace, the kind he shared with Eskel.</p><p>          The blizzard had died down for the moment and in the crackling of the flames, he could hear Jaskier think. In hopes of stopping him, not to let him dig into the wound, he spoke.</p><p>          “Let’s not waste time with that, you’ll only hurt yourself worse. Let’s rest now.” Geralt said, slowly peeling Jaskier off his chest. Maybe if he said it to his face, the bard would have no choice but to obey.  </p><p>          The blue was besieged by the red of irritated eyes and it looked past Geralt, even as he stood right there. The tears hadn’t stop but there were fewer and the Witcher took his victories from where he could.  </p><p>          “I don’t think I can sleep.”</p><p>          “You can rest. Read a book.”</p><p>          Geralt stood and in doing so, with a firm grip on Jaskier, rose him up from the ground. The man stood there, still like a tree, watching the dancing of the flames but seeing something else.</p><p>          The blanket was a welcoming, grounding weight when it was wrapped around his shoulders in clean, rocky movements. Geralt took his hands that had fallen limp at his sides and clenched them around the edges of the blanket with his own, and there they held on, keeping Jaskier warm as he was guided up the stairs.</p><p>          He could see himself and he could see Geralt taking one step at a time until they reached the first floor. In the shadows, the guiding pressure in his back never left.</p><p>          Jaskier sat down, blinked away another tear and got lost in the glowing embers. His fingers tingled with the desire to touch them not because he wanted to get burnt but because there was a rope around his throat and as it narrowed, his mind numbed. Around a scream of pain, he could steal a breath.</p><p>          Geralt took away his doublet and fitted him into an ample jersey of wool and the rope kept tightening. His hands reach out, slowly, towards the burning coal, but are quickly surrounded by much bigger stronger ones. He uttered a complaint, short and high like a wounded animal, and brusquely pulled his hands away.</p><p>          He looked, with apathy distorted by frustration, at those hands that he did not remember who they belonged to. First, they stood in the air in front of him, fingers outstretched, and palms exposed.</p><p>          Then the fingers slowly curled as if taken aback and finally the hands disappeared and Jaskier stared at his lap again. Apathy returned to him and dried away the tears entirely and the rope, like a pendant, already grazed his neck.</p><p>          Behind him, a door closed.</p><p>          Against it leaned a Witcher with his hands sprawled against the wood, scraping at it with his nails.  </p><p>          As a heart-wrenching cry tore through the night, the blizzard rose anew but couldn't compete. The Witcher closed his eyes and let his head drop against the door with a thud. Another cry followed and the sounds of punching against the tiles. With hands turned to fists, he slid to the ground and let his head rest between his knees.</p><p>          As if a wraith had been caged in the library, there were screams of agony that time turned into mournful crying. The caged beast wailed, pushed the brazier to the ground with a scream and the coals rolled away. He kicked away the covers and wept softly in a dark corner until he could weep no more. Geralt stayed by the doorway past sunrise when silence reigned again but nobody came out of their rooms except Vesemir.</p><p>          Still like a golem, keeping guard on the door, Geralt and his expressionless face looked up at his mentor.</p><p>          They had nothing to say.</p><p>          A lonely wolf howled in the distance but its pack didn’t respond.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I HATE this chapter. It took me forever to write. I hate how it came out, particularly the rhythm. I'm also genuinely devastated that I couldn't properly convey the reasons behind each character's reaction. At least, I don't think I did. Let me know in the comments what your impression has been. I hope I haven't turned any character into a demon, I personally think they have their reasons to react the way they do and that, after all, they're Witchers. <br/>What do you think? Is it realistic?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Hope is found in overglorified bathtubs.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>          On the balcony, Vesemir watched the rising sun when Geralt, not quite knowing why, went to lean on the railing too. Staring at the blue mountains, he broke the silence.</p><p>          "You think I was wrong to bring Jaskier here."</p><p>          "I think even if you hadn't brought him, he would still have arrived."</p><p>          "He is stubborn, no doubt," agreed Geralt.</p><p>          "Is that all he is?"</p><p>          "Among other things."</p><p>          "Among other things," Vesemir repeated and a subtle smile curved his lips. He chuckled once, dry and quick. "As secretive as ever."</p><p>          "If there is something you want to know, ask directly. No metaphors or double meanings"</p><p>          "And will you answer me?" Vesemir leaned on his side to look at that face that revealed nothing.</p><p>          "If I know the answer, I will."</p><p>          Vesemir laughed shortly, clapped his favourite student on the back twice and when Geralt looked at him, he said</p><p>          "Then I won't waste time asking you. I'm afraid you've never known the answer. It scares you."</p><p>          Geralt, turning his eyes to the horizon, pursed his lips slightly and with a thoughtful look replied, remembering a conversation he couldn't get out of his head.</p><p>          "Jaskier also likes to accuse me of being a coward."</p><p>          "Every man who spends his life in solitude ends up drowning in the same fear, Geralt. The boy is clever to see that."</p><p>          "Says the man who spends the year in a ruined fortress hoping that his wards didn’t die that year, and someone will come home again."</p><p>          “Lambert has asked me. Eskel has asked me. All the children who passed through my hands and who stopped being children have asked. But never you."</p><p>          "I haven't asked anything." Geralt replied, shrugging his shoulders. Vesemir hummed, as if pondering the words briefly.</p><p>          "But you want to know the answer. You want to know why I stay here. You want to know if one day you will also stay."</p><p>          "No."</p><p>          "No?"</p><p>          "I will not stay. I will die old and slow, killed by some monster."</p><p>          "How did Jaskier say it? Have you ever loved someone so much...?"</p><p>          "…You couldn't go back to your life if they died."</p><p>          Geralt had lost enough people in a hundred years, although no one had ever been his.</p><p>          He remembered an innocent girl who gave him a flower crown in exchange for rescuing her mother. He remembered that there had not been fear in her round brown eyes and that she had smiled at him when the rest of the townspeople hid behind doors and windows. He remembered crossing that town a month later and seeing the new grave and a wreath on it, much uglier and worse made. And he had continued on the path, he had continued with his life.</p><p>          When Stregobor and Renfri willing to do the unspeakable to end the other, dragged him into their whirlwind of destruction, Geralt had returned to his life afterwards. Or perhaps he, dazzled by that monstrous princess, this woman who was not only a woman as he was not only a man, had allowed himself to be dragged. Geralt still had the brooch on his sword but also the sword on his back and that was how he walked the road.</p><p>          He remembered a few others but he never remembered it stopping him.</p><p>          "Yes, that's what he said." Vesemir agreed.</p><p>          "And was that what happened?"</p><p>          "It was the reason to stay a while longer and, in the end, I had reasons not to leave again. When I stopped having them, I was old enough not to make excuses for myself."</p><p>          "What does it have to do with Jaskier?"</p><p>          "All." Vesemir crossed his arms and turned his back on the sun and Geralt turned his face to look at him. "When I met Reena, I understood why people rejoice when there is a birth. Until then, life seemed like a sentence, a cruel and slow executioner. Not a joy. Never a joy."</p><p>          "And she died."</p><p>          "She was killed, and it was my fault." Vesemir confessed and Geralt looked at the horizon again to give some privacy to that strange mourning that the old Wolf held in his gaze, quiet, private and short. "It didn't last long, but it lasted long enough to never be the same."</p><p>          "I'm not sure that's the case with Jaskier. A lot of people lose friends, that's the way life is. He looks innocent with his kind eyes and that mischievous smile he puts on before making a scandal, but I'm sure Jaskier knows that Little Eye may be dead. " Geralt was silent for a few seconds and then continued, deciding to be completely honest. "I think he will take it well. He is not weak. I know what you think of him, and believe me, I thought the same, but it is not that simple. Jaskier is not that simple."</p><p>          "I am not talking about Jaskier."</p><p>          "Then about whom?"</p><p>          "Let me ask you another way, even if you don't know how to answer me."</p><p>          "Go ahead, do it"</p><p>          "Do you know why you’ve chosen Jaskier?”</p><p>          “Chosen? I’ve not chosen him for anything. He stuck to me like shit to a boot sole” Snorted Geralt.</p><p>          “How strange it is, then, that you won’t clean the boot. How confusing, truly, that one may even say, you care about the shit. Terrific, even, that you might consider the shit your equal. Do you not?”</p><p>          Geralt turned around to look at Vesemir with a frown, demand him to explain what he meant, but Vesemir was already walking away and for whatever reason, the Witcher didn’t dare chase after him. He didn’t dare to know the answer he couldn’t come up with himself. A coward indeed.</p><ul>
<li>- -</li>
</ul><p>          A gentle, large, warm hand wrapped around his arm. It moved him slowly seeking to wake him up but it was the smell of cooked that woke him up. Pepper, venison, and carrot in a steaming wooden bowl, held by another large hand, perhaps gentle and warm, was the first thing Jaskier saw.</p><p>          "Good morning. Since you didn't come for breakfast, I came to see you." the voice was deep but neither metallic nor hoarse, on the contrary, in its dryness it was like finding a cave in the pouring rain. Eskel. "How do you feel?"</p><p>          "Perfectly fine." Jaskier said with his voice ravaged by crying and with a runny nose.</p><p>          With marked circles under his eyes, puffy eyes and bloody knuckles, the young man took the breakfast and the spoon and pressed closer against his corner.</p><p>          "You don't look perfectly fine in my opinion."</p><p>          "Well, take your opinion and exchange it for another. What does it matter to me."</p><p>          "You're angry." Eskel concluded, sitting cross-legged at a safe distance, not wanting to come off as a intruder.</p><p>          "No." Jaskier replied, glaring at him as he brought another spoonful to his mouth.</p><p>          He couldn't help noticing that the library had been cleaned. There was no carbon left on the floor, only the marks on the tiles, and the blankets were folded neatly next to the side table. That only made him angrier. Not at Eskel, of course not, but at himself.</p><p>          "Okay, okay, whatever you say." Eskel shrugged his shoulders. "I am not here to fight you. In fact, I’m here to bring you good news.”</p><p>          Jaskier didn’t react to that forced joyful tone with nothing but an arched brow.</p><p>          “I see you’ve been around Geralt long enough. Well, I’ll put it simply then.”</p><p>          “Do so. I don’t want to make you waste your time.”</p><p>          “Time I spend with you is time I don’t spend fixing the keep.” Eskel smiled. “Which suits me fine because I think at any point, we’re going to see a dead body falling outside the window.”</p><p>          Silence stretched and Eskel started to look uncomfortable, even ready to stand up and just leave behind whatever reason he had had to come up to the library in the first place. Jaskier, who felt particularly guilty to have brought unease to Kaer Morhen, decided to face the blame he bestowed upon himself.</p><p>          “Lambert is still angry?”</p><p>          “The man was probably born angry.” Eskel shrugged and it made Jaskier smile a little.</p><p>          “Why are you here?”</p><p>          “Because you look like a wreck and Vesemir said that’s no way of treating a guest to leave him to wail in self-pity.”</p><p>          “You didn’t have to be <em>that </em>specific.”  Jaskier whispered against the edge of the bowl before he drank the remaining soup.</p><p>          “I don’t think you’re the kind who beats around the bush. Either way, doesn’t matter. You still have dried blood here and there on your face.”</p><p>          “Well, I did not ask that arrow to splatter me, if that makes any difference.”</p><p>          Eskel guffawed, throwing his head back, which made Jaskier smile for real this time. He passed the bowl over to that stretched out hand.</p><p>          “I bet you didn’t. Come, follow me. Not everything in this keep is falling apart.”</p><p>          Little by little, Jaskier stood up and willingly accepted Eskel to throw a blanket over his shoulders, since his underpants and that sweater would do nothing against the cold of the mountains.</p><p>          Quickly and without asking, Eskel's remaining free hand went to Jaskier's waist seeking to help him walk.</p><p>          "Can you even walk with that on your feet? You've put on enough bandages to open your own apothecary. Isn't barding much money?"</p><p>          "Very funny." Jaskier replied rolling his eyes. "I got blisters and burns the size of my entire foot, so your friend couldn't think of a better idea than to fiddle with them. It seems to be common practice because Vesemir also left me a paste."</p><p>          "And you have done well to let yourself be cared for. You humans die easier than flies."</p><p>          "Thank you." Jaskier snorted with a grin from ear to ear and slapped Eskel's hand away good-humouredly. "Very friendly, <em>Witcher.</em>"</p><p>          "Look who is recovering their verve. Let's take this crap off you, you don't need it anymore."</p><p>          With an agile movement and a push behind the knee, Jaskier suddenly found himself on one leg. To keep from falling, and with a small yelp, he grabbed Eskel's shoulders, causing the Witcher to arch a brow and gift him a smirk.</p><p>          The practice of years upon years caring for wounds turned the dilemma into children's play. With careful but quick hands, Eskel removed the bandages from both feet, allowing Jaskier to lean on as much as he needed.</p><p>          The bard took a close look at the scarred face and decided it wasn’t as monstrous as he had thought at the firelight, but even more, that even if it were it didn’t matter at all. The man was definitely not a monster.</p><p>          The scabs went away with the bandages, old and fallen by themselves. His skin itched like hell, but he knew better than to pick at it. Not willing to look completely like a child, he snatched the offered new boots from Eskel’s hands and sat down to put them on.</p><p>          “Easy now. Those things are ancient.”</p><p>          “Definitely not on-trend, no.” Jaskier agreed with a grimace.</p><p>        They were as practical as they were ugly but most of all, they were warm, and they felt like heaven on earth. As long as he didn’t look down, he thought he could live with that eyesore on his feet.</p><p>          Jaskier followed Eskel, his smile and his beckoning gesture through the keep. Down the stairs unto the entrance hall and then across the outer courtyard they walked. Eskel greeted Vesemir with a nod that was reciprocated but didn't stop the old Witcher as he worked in tandem with the other two to ready the training area.</p><p>          Eskel took Jaskier over to a hidden corner behind a ruined tower with collapsed stairs, an area full of rubble and weeds and propped up by beams and metal reinforcements. There laid the entrance to a long corridor that ate into the mountain. </p><p>          "The hot springs?" Jaskier guessed as they walked in.</p><p>          "I see Geralt hasn't left me the pleasure of surprise." Eskel flicked his hand and a torch caught fire. He took it in his hand and went on. "You need to wash off the blood and grime."</p><p>          "You don't need to tell me twice. This has been the worst trip of my life.”</p><p>          “That’s what you get for tagging with that grumpy loner.”</p><p>          “Had I known there were nicer Witchers, I might have made a better choice.”</p><p>          “Careful, don’t want to pick favourites before the first round of Gwent. You never know who’ll strip you of your pretty coin.”</p><p>          “Hah. A tad too late, I fear. Those soldiers did.”</p><p>          “Geralt told us about that. Glad I did what I did, to be honest.” Eskel handed over the torch to Jaskier and placed his weight against a door tightly fitted into the small end of the corridor, then forced it open with a grunt. Dust and gravel rained down on them but nothing could stop Jaskier in his impatience. Eskel let him in with an exaggerated, mocking bow.</p><p>          The cave was winding and long but narrow. It opened towards the end where a huge natural skylight let in the sun, which was reflected in the crystal clear water. Aquamarine blue and easily accessible, with no sheer edges or apparent dangers, the hot springs looked like something out of a legend.</p><p>          "What are you waiting for, my permission? You will not last here long with so much gawking."</p><p>          "This is ... divine. Have a little mercy." was all Jaskier could mutter, approaching the edge of the water and kneeling there, dropping the blanket from his shoulders. It was warm in there anyway. He could see himself in the reflection.</p><p>          "There will be time for poetry later. Get undressed and get in.”</p><p>          "Just one second. “Jaskier said, tentatively touching the surface of the water and seeing the ripples that formed as goofy grin formed on his lips. He splashed some water with his fingers and watched the drops fly through the subtle fog there was. "I need a notebook. And my lute."</p><p>          "All in due time." the Witcher conceded, approaching Jaskier and pointing in the distance. "From here to where the sun hits it gets pretty deep all at once. Then you should be able to stand on the other side. On the edge there are usually rags and some soap."</p><p>          "Wait. I have to swim there?" Jaskier gulped, looking up and over where the Witcher pointed.</p><p>          “Is not that far away.” Eskel frowned in confusion, shrugging. Then he glanced over to the bard’s face which had lost all colour and showed wide-open eyes. “You got to be kidding me. You can’t swim! What are you? Three?”</p><p>          Jaskier stood up abruptly and shushed him, quickly turning red. His attempt at placing a quieting hand on Eskel fell short as the man clutched both wrists in one hand and kept laughing.</p><p>          “There was no sea where I was born!” he lied. </p><p>          “No rivers either? A lake? I don’t believe you.” Eskel mocked him. Jaskier huffed, pressed his lips in a tight line and looked away. “Don’t go getting all lordly now. You can hold onto the edge and move over. I won’t tell…”</p><p>          “Sure, you won’t.” Jaskier rolled his eyes.</p><p>          He stared with longing at the hard-earned bath that looked so far away as Eskel released his hold of him. With crossed arms, he sat down, defeated.</p><p>          “Is not that big of a deal, come on. I swear I won’t tell. This is starting to be annoying.” Eskel shrugged, still smiling but clearly off-put that an adult could put that much of a fight over decency. He was a Witcher. Nothing, absolutely nothing, came before a decent bath. The occasion was too rare and precious to go wasted.</p><p>          “No one is as annoyed as me, trust me.”</p><p>          Jaskier unlaced his boots and left them behind his back, safe away from the edge, to at least dip his feet on the warm water with a hiss of pleasure and a sigh.  </p><p>          “I’m terrified” he confessed and Eskel arched a brown, willing to listen. “As a noble kid I wasn’t to go into lakes and rivers, but gods I wanted to. One day I did. I ran away with the children of my servants. Turns out, they just pretended to like me so they could <em>torture me</em> those nasty little brats.”</p><p>          “My, my, someone holds a grudge”, laughed the Witcher, rather impressed at the amount of spite a charming illustrated man could muster.</p><p>          “They tried to drown me, Eskel! Me! I’m a joy to be around, why would anyone do that?”</p><p>          “It was probably just a game.”</p><p>          “Well you can be thankful for their game now. You’re going to be stuck with a smelly bard all winter.”</p><p>          “Oh, no, I’m not. Have you not heard about a Witcher’s senses? The fact that I’m here it’s already bordering on agony. I never thought I’d be glad to smell the sulphur of the water but honestly, can’t compete…”</p><p>          “Is it <em>that</em> bad?” Jaskier sniffed his own armpits and his face distorted in absolute disgust. Then he added with what little voice he had left, strained and weak. “Yes, yes, it is. Melitele preserve me.”</p><p>          The lights went out as a gambeson fell over his face and covered his vision. Jaskier took it between his hands and turned his head to watch Eskel take off the tunic he wore under.</p><p>          "Do you have a thing for getting naked?" Jaskier joked, a little puzzled.</p><p>          "Before I bathe, yes. I try to." </p><p>          "Oh, sure, go ahead, rub it in. I <em>totally</em> won't hate you for it".</p><p>          "Hard to believe that threat when you're smiling." Eskel counteracted, shrugging off his pants and underpants, kicking off his riding boots.</p><p>          Jaskier had the decency to look away right on time and breath in deep as his brows skyrocketed. He nervously moved his feet inside the water and focused all his thoughts on counting the ripples and nothing else.</p><p>          When Eskel jumped into the pool, which was as deep as he had claimed, the water splashed wildly and wet Jaskier from head to toe.</p><p>          "Tough place to be timid, Jaskier. Don't want Lambert to call you a damsel in distress, do you?"</p><p>          “Of course, that was a breakfast’s topic.”</p><p>          “Too shy or too small?”  </p><p>         "What the- Too civil!"</p><p>          Jaskier opened his eyes wide like he never had before and his mouth dropped open. He stuttered for words under the pressure of Eskels cheeky smile. He had never thought he’d miss Geralt’s silent treatment. In the end, he spat out;</p><p>          "I merely have some <em>decency</em>! If you savage even know what that means and -oh my god- this water is really really crystalline"</p><p>          "Don't look then" Eskel’s smile widened and as he floated in the water there was no way to cover away his pudenda.</p><p>          "Not sure I can stop."</p><p>          "Quite impressive, uh?" his smile widened.</p><p>          "I'm <em>won’t </em>answer that." He rose his hands and turned away his face but couldn’t help steal another glance or two.</p><p>          "That's a yes." And then the smile widened some more. Jaskier kicked water his way over and over which Eskel didn’t even bother to react to.</p><p>          "That's a turn around. Now." The bard barked.</p><p>          "Don't want me to compare?"</p><p>          As Eskel turned around, Jaskier staggered to get to his feet. Shaking off the water like a wet dog and knowing that it wouldn't be as easy to shake off his sudden embarrassment, he let the imperious need to bathe rule over his shame.</p><p>          Taking the jersey off was easy, but before he slipped out of the cotton pants, he cast a glance to Eskel. Onsight, there was long brown hair, wet and finger-brushed backwards and broad shoulders which meant nothing to Jaskier - even as he would gladly take in the view under vastly different circumstances - because Eskel was still floating. In water. Deep water.</p><p>          Jaskier cleared his throat, uncertain on what to do.</p><p>          "Oh, now I can turn? You're awfully bossy." Eskel pointed out.</p><p>          "Don't have much of a choice here."</p><p>          "Because this is such a hardship, right?"</p><p>          "I didn't say that." Jaskier shrugged and decided right away that he was not going to be treated like a child. When Eskel turned around and saw him in all his glory, he didn't look away. He only arched a brow. "What?"</p><p>          "Nothing at all. Relax. You need some blood left in your heart, oh, blushing maiden." Eskel mocked him. "Come over, jump. I'll catch you. There's a busy day ahead, no offence."</p><p>          "Are you... sure? You won't drop me, right?"</p><p>          Jaskier had greater worries than some mild attempt at an insult, like facing his greatest fear in life after a broken lute. With the tip of a toe, he touched the water but the stone floor was so far deep, he just couldn't bring himself to drop into the water.</p><p>          "Only if you kick me in the balls," Eskel assured with a sigh. "Please, we don't have all day. This is fun, I like you and all of that, but I only have so much patience and it's starting to wear thin."</p><p>          "I know. I know." Jaskier nodded, shaking his head to dispel his doubts. "I can do it. I can do it...."</p><p>          With his eyes closed tight, bracing himself, Jaskier dipped his foot and as the warm water reached his ankle, he took it back right away with a whiny.</p><p>          “No. I can’t!”</p><p>          "Oh, for fuck's sake. I'm done. Sorry"</p><p>          "Wha-?"</p><p>          Before he could ask anything, there was a firm hand gripping around his ankle and pulling with enough strength that he wouldn't fall against the edge.</p><p>          "NO!" Jaskier screamed at the top of his lungs, ending in a screeching high note and then unintelligible bubbles as water surrounded him. Right away, a pair of strong arms held him firmly too and he clawed without mercy at that broad back.</p><p>          In a split second, they had emerged out of the water. Jaskier desperately -and unnecessarily- gasped for air with as much dignity as a gaping fish. Eskel removed one arm which made Jaskier shriek again and use his legs to encircle the Witcher's waist.</p><p>          Eskel only brushed his hair back with his free hand and promptly placed it back behind Jaskier's neck. Then, as he arched a brow, he looked Jaskier in the eye with what the bard would have sworn to be a provoking smile.</p><p>          "You make a man get ideas."</p><p>          "The only fucking idea you have to get right now is to move the fuck over there. Copy that?" he growled, pressing his head tight against the space between a shoulder and the neck.</p><p>          "Copy that." Eskel made an overly serious face and got onto his back to slowly paddle away with his legs.</p><p>          Jaskier shivered in terror, even as the water was lukewarm and the body plastered to his was definitely not to be considered anything other than hot.</p><p>          "Are we there?"</p><p>          "Nearly. Can you not claw at me?"</p><p>          "No."</p><p>          That made Eskel laugh and Jaskier move with it but the hand in his back and the one at his nape, instead of returning the painful favour, only rubbed him soothingly and never reduced the strength of the hold that seemed to make Jaskier think he was safe enough.</p><p>          "Here we are. You can let go."</p><p>          "For real?"</p><p>          "I'm standing, am I not?"</p><p>          Slowly, Jaskier opened his eyes and, indeed, they were no longer moving in what felt like the void, like death itself. He slowly unclenched himself from Eskel who let him go at his own rhythm. Still, Jaskier knew that look. He'd have to make sure to be there at breakfast tomorrow to keep that from being a topic of conversation.</p><p>          "Got to say this was quite fun, after all. A waste of time, but fun."</p><p>          "Oh, yes, hilarious. Ten-ten would recommend." Jaskier spat as he quickly walked over to the edge and held onto it, albeit unnecessarily "Top three ways to get a heart attack. How did I even live before this?" </p><p>          "Feisty." </p><p>          "Fuck you."</p><p>          "I’ve had enough scratches for a day. Maybe tomorrow.”  </p><p>          Eskel went after him and took a rag and a soap bar. The saddest excuse of a soap bar Jaskier had ever seen, by the way.</p><p>          He lathered the piece of cloth and passed it to Jaskier who immediately began rubbing each curve and hollow of his body vigorously.</p><p>          Eskel leaned his elbows on the edge and looked at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. He noticed the calluses of a musician's fingers, the skin without notch or stain, the straight hair, lighter than his own and the pink lips. If it wasn't for his perfectly round ears, Eskel would have sworn that Elven blood ran through his veins.</p><p>          He looked down, following the path of the rag across his hairy chest and lean torso. There were some lines, an attempt at muscle definition that did not go beyond the fact of living an active life.</p><p>          Due to the fury with which he was rubbing, the skin was turning red on his shoulders and back.</p><p>          Jaskier looked up, feeling watched, but Eskel was just laying there with his eyes closed and perfectly relaxed. He frowned momentarily but promptly let it go.</p><p>          He couldn’t quite tear his gaze of the man though. As he took the soap and got to work on his greasy hair, Jaskier let his eyes follow the scars that adorned the body on sight.  </p><p>          Being the body of a warrior, perfectly trained to be agile and lethal, the scars did not detract from his appeal. Jaskier, used to finesse and curves and softness but a lover of beauty and pleasure as a general rule, wondered what those sharp edges would be like to the touch. Even if it was only for the love of art, for weaving poetry in the way the sun made the reddish tone of the old wound shine, his curiosity was piqued.</p><p>          There was a certain vortex of allure around a man like Eskel, as strange as a Witcher and as approachable as he felt. Quite an enigma and Jaskier was nothing if not curious.  </p><p>          "I am not a showcase."  Eskel said, quite sharply.</p><p>          "A pity. I'd spend the money." Jaskier answered, having already lost his shame and fear to regain his airs and graces, resulting in what he’d call a delightful mix of humour and cheekiness.</p><p>          Eskel opened his eyes slowly with a gleam of those analytical capabilities that his mentor had. He studied Jaskier, then his own chest, and Jaskier again. With a shrug, he answered.</p><p>          “Too bad it got stolen, then.”</p><p>          As the minutes passed, Jaskier realized that they were not in a hurry and decided that it was not a bad time to try to recover their energy. After all, there was little else he could do.</p><p>          If he was honest with himself, he still wanted to cry. He could probably cry anytime, anywhere if he let grief wash over him. Floating in the middle of a hot spring, he thought trying to laugh at the tragedy, it would be a waste of tears.</p><p>          He let go of the edge of the natural pool and dared to slide through the hot water and float like a dead weight not far from Eskel, even if there was no current. The blue sky was perfectly visible through the skylight and managed to calm him somewhat. He was not going to give up. It was simply not an option. He took a deep breath and consoled himself with the thought that there was still the whole winter ahead.</p><p>          “How did you meet Little Eye?”</p><p>          Jaskier opened his eyes and stilled a breath. He hadn’t expected to have been thinking much the same as Eskel. In a way, it filled him with hope, but he wasn’t naïve enough to let it get to his head. Instead, he kept searching for shapes in the clouds.</p><p>          “As soon as I turned five, my father enrolled me in a temple school in Kerack where my older cousin, Ferrant, who was already working his way up the ladder, was to keep me safe but found himself too busy with the problems of other nobles.”</p><p>          “Sounds like you were lonely.”</p><p>          “That’s one way to put it.”</p><p>          “I bet you enjoyed learning still. Vesemir made quite the face when Geralt claimed that you wanted to read your way through the library.”</p><p>          “Child-me wouldn’t have looked twice at that place. Those priests weren’t the greatest of teachers. They beat us, children, with a cane more often even that they made us pray. Essi Daven, a troublemaking child from Cidaris on the other side of the Adalette, came into my life with her smell of verbena and beautiful blue eyes.”</p><p>          “A childhood romance? How sweet.”</p><p>          “No! Never” Jaskier made a face and shook his head to vanish the thought. He decided to stand back up and there was Eskel, also standing there, also looking up at the sky. “She’s like a little sister to me. Maybe the only woman in the world I haven’t tried to flirt with.”</p><p>          “And here I thought I was special” joked Eskel looking back down at the same time as Jaskier who this time didn’t blush at all and instead held that gaze that was irremediably intense with its gold and its felineness.</p><p>          “All Witchers are full of themselves, am I right?”</p><p>          Eskel gave him a half-smile and a soft huff.</p><p>          “Maybe. What then?”</p><p>          “Well, the cane became even more common as we got up to no good. We parted ways, then met again at Oxenfurt after some years, when she wasn’t a child from Cidaris anymore, but a troubadour.”</p><p>          “And that is all?”</p><p>          “It’s all I can say without breaking down but rest assured, she’s the family I never had. I think… and I’m sorry for intruding what’s not my business, especially so given that we just met but… I think Little Eye is to me, what Geralt is to you.”</p><p>          “Sounds like someone worth saving, then,” Eskel said in a whisper, nodding and maid no remark about the sudden glimmer in the cornflower blue eyes. “But we don’t want to stain this over-glorified bathtub with sad talk.”</p><p>          “You’re the one who brought it up.”</p><p>          “What can I say? You remind me of old times. Simpler, happier times.”</p><p>          “How so?”</p><p>          “Couldn’t say. I’m a Witcher, not a bard.”</p><p>          “Try. It’s only fair that you embarrass yourself after what happened… over there.” Jaskier gestured to the narrow passage that took to the other side.</p><p>          “Which is about to happen again” He held out a bent arm which Jaskier wrapped his hands around and wasn’t surprised to feel it as if made of stone. “Unless you can keep your nails off my back, that is.”</p><p>          “If you can keep your mouth shut.”</p><p>          Eskel laughed and then Jaskier followed.</p><p>          “Easy deal.”</p><p>          Slowly, so as not to spiral into a panic, Jaskier held onto the arm and tried to swim with his legs to help the Witcher move faster who, on his back, didn’t take his eyes off him the whole way back. Jaskier felt thankful for it. Even as he’d always find them the right side of unsettling, he thought that Eskel’s made him think much more so of honey than of cold gold. In a way, he had no choice but to trust that man and thus, it was easy to make the way back, with their eyes locked and a subtle smile.  </p><p>         </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all so much for the overwhelming support I received in the last chapter.<br/>I hope the university won't demand too much from me in these awful times of quarantine and online exams. I apologize in advance if I can't do a chapter a day.<br/>Anyway, I'm super eager to start writing fluffy-humorous chapters that will deepen the relationship with each Witcher and Jaskier, sometimes in groups, sometimes 1v1. </p><p>I painted Jaskier on more shy lighting in this chapter as I think he has a flirty way with words but that shouldn't necessarily translate, since he's a noble, a romantic and given the overall "prudeness" of the times, into being fine with crude nakedness with a near stranger. I still tried to convey his strength of character and how, deep down, he's still a flirtatious person.<br/>Bottom line is I am not sure Jaskier isn't OOC in this, but I hope it's not too terrible.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The White Wolf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>          Behind the door to the hot springs, as Eskel pointed out before leaving, was a change of clothes. Without a doubt, it had belonged to some Witcher, given its simplicity and practicality, two things that Jaskier had learned to value on his way up the mountain.</p><p>          On the hanger was a long-sleeved cotton shirt to wear under a thick gambeson. They smelled a bit musty but promised to protect well from the cold so Jaskier did not hesitate to put on the garments.</p><p>          He tucked his shirt inside his underwear and new pants and let the gambeson fall over his lean figure. Tightening the laces of his boots until he was sure that he would not twist his ankle walking through the ruined fortress, he left the cerulean water behind with the promise of prompt return with his lute.</p><p>          Jaskier closed the door gently as he left and groping for the wet wall with his hands, he walked into the daylight he could see at the end of the corridor.</p><p>          "Good morning."</p><p>          "Blessed gods! What in the ever love are you doing up there?" Jaskier exclaimed, putting a hand to his chest.</p><p>          In the crumbling tower, on a wood beam impaled between the stone wall and the ground, Geralt sat with a half-eaten apple in one hand and a book in the other.</p><p>          "Resting while Vesemir is away. Take this. It took me a while to find one in good condition, but I think you’ll find it useful." Geralt made a move to throw the book at him and when Jaskier reached out to take it, he threw it his way.</p><p>          As soon as it landed in his hands, his fingers caressed the leather covers. The blind stamping had embellished them with animal imagery and although old, it stayed in good shape. Casting a glance upwards and getting a nod in return, Jaskier unlocked the rusty metal clasps and opened the book, which turned out to be empty.</p><p>          "A notebook." Geralt confirmed, then took another bite of the apple and jumped to the ground gracefully.</p><p>          Jaskier caressed the yellowing paper with awe and blinked himself out of his astounding. He buried his face in between the pages and took in a deep breath of a quite familiar yet uncommon smell.</p><p>          "It's lovely and impeccably made. Than-  Geralt?" frowning, he turned around on the spot but couldn't find the Witcher at sight. Certain that he couldn't be much further away, he still shouted with a flourish, " That’s Geralt for you. Rude even when nice, vanishes with the wind. I will get tired of this one day, just so you know."</p><p>          Jaskier huffed and shook his head, pressing that work of art close to his chest. He carefully skipped the areas that looked ready to crumble and turned at the corner to step into the backyard.</p><p>          “You make it easy to find you.”</p><p>          "Blessed-"</p><p>          "Gods." Vesemir finished, albeit not screaming. With a stack of books in his arms, he walked over to Jaskier at a brisk pace, coming out of the blue as far as the bard was concerned.</p><p>          Behind his back, on the other end, the rest of the Wolves were discreetly watching over their shoulders as they either tested the swords or stretched. Geralt pirouetted his way down from the wall where he had climbed to hide from Vesemir’s arrival. Lambert was the first to turn his attention away and throw a training dummy Geralt’s way.</p><p>          "What... is this exactly? Not complaining, by the way." questioned Jaskier as Vesemir took his notebook, placed the many books on his hands -which nearly made his knees buckle- and then put it back on top.</p><p>          "A place to start."</p><p>          “To start? Start what? No offense but the Witcher I know has a tendency to start things that lead to immediate cosmic repercussions to everyone around and I, my good sir, have a quite a few sins to atone for that I’d rather not face right now.”</p><p>          Jaskier stretched his neck to try and see where he was stepping as he followed the old man. Avoiding treacherous holes and slippery stones, they reached the rest and Jaskier could place the books on the tree stump with a puff of air. When he turned around, Vesemir was right there, nearly threatening if only by how close and serious he was.</p><p>          "These are the basics any trainee goes through. If you want to write the tales of a Witcher, you ought to at least differentiate between an Alghoul and a Ghoul."</p><p>          “You’re obsessed with that.” Smiled Eskel with an eyeroll but was easily ignored.</p><p>          "Geralt told you I wanted to read them; I presume."</p><p>          "Geralt said many things, all which matter not when it comes to this. I might have been just a fight instructor but as an old man, I can tell when someone has wits." He gestured to the men behind his back and said, "Do me a favour, the next time we meet, bring me better conversation than these knuckleheads tend to do"</p><p>          "Do you see now where we get the niceness from?" chuckled Eskel as he reached over to the other foot.</p><p>          Open-legged on the floor, stretching his side, he sat the closest to them. Vesemir didn't bother with an answer, he just walked back into the keep. Jaskier waved a hand when the golden gaze fell upon him and got a friendly nod in response.</p><p>          "Thanks for the clothes," he told Eskel, unsure of what to do.</p><p>          "You're welcome," grunted Lambert as he struck the training dummy again, twirled the hilt between hands and twisted around as he delivered all his strength on the second blow, nearly knocking it down. Due to Geralt holding it up from behind, it didn't fall.</p><p>          "They used to be Lambert's." Geralt clarified. "He feels sorry for the way he reacted."</p><p>          "I never said that." growled the man as he dealt a quick row of slashes to the wood. Jaskier, awkwardly, sat with his back against the stump and rested his forearms on his knees.</p><p>          "Really? Because I'm pretty sure you did. Didn't he, Geralt?"</p><p>          "He did."</p><p>          Jaskier had seen that subtle amusement in his face before, on the way up to Kaer Morhen. It made him try and supress a smile as Lambert’s rage was not in his bucket list.</p><p>          "He absolutely did." Confirmed Eskel, turning his eyes to Jaskier once more and nodding solemnly only to piss his brother off.</p><p>          "Fine. I'll just let the next dumbass who brings a bloody doublet to the mountains freeze to death."</p><p>          "Don't have to get all defensive, now."</p><p>          "You want to see defensive, Eskel?” Lambert turned around and Geralt watched from behind the dummy. Jaskier failed his mission and smiled upon seeing the faint smirk. “Get the sword."</p><p>          "Always willing to beat your ass."</p><p>          As Eskel stood up, stretched like a cat arching his back and then took his training sword, Geralt moved from behind the abused dummy and over to Jaskier. The bard looked up to him as he checked one or two books before sitting down by his side.</p><p>          “Who do you say will win?” Geralt pointed to the Witchers.</p><p>          They circled each other in a strange dance of feet. Their faces hand turned into a blank canvas that let none of their thoughts be known to the other. Eskel stilled his pace and twirled the sword until it was hidden behind his tilted body, like a scorpion’s concealed stinger. Lambert, in response, stopped and crouched slightly as he brought both hands on the hilt to the side of his head, twisting his torso to one side.</p><p>          “Lambert?” Jaskier guessed.</p><p>          “Why?”</p><p>          “Eskel’s sword is behind his back. Lambert is ready to strike.”</p><p>          “But Lambert doesn’t know where the counterattack will come from. To attack now would be a great risk.”</p><p>          The man sprung to action, fast and confident. Lambert's little leap moved the snow under his feet, sent it hurtling backwards. He struck forward, towards Eskel's heart, but no blade crashed against his own and the momentum of the move would have made any other man fall. Eskel had masterfully spun around in the last second, thus the sword had missed him and the move placed him behind the elbow of Lambert.</p><p>          The knob of the hilt fell down his palm and onto his fingers where it rotated and allowed for the perfect reverse grip. In a swift move, too fast for Jaskier to see, the tip of the sword pointed to Lambert's face. The blade went down from his chin, behind his elbow and onto the hilt which Eskel held by the forearm of the other Wolf.</p><p>          Quickly, just as the move was finished, Lambert turned to face Eskel and pulled his extended arm back, forcing the swords to meet and slide against one another for a split second before each Witcher jumped backwards.</p><p>          Jaskier leaned forward onto his knees, eager to get closer to see, which got Geralt to grab him by the collar and pull him back against the tree stump again. That didn’t deter his fascination in the slightest.</p><p>          “So how could Lambert know?” asked Geralt.</p><p>          “He didn’t. He just reacted accordingly.” Was the muttered awe-filled response.</p><p>          Geralt’s gaze snapped to the bard, pleasantly surprised. His eyes squinted for a second and then, he let out a soft hmm and returned his attention to the fight.</p><p>          The Witchers stepped forward and met in the middle. Lambert parried a blow to the front leg and returned it in kind, but Eskel merely raised his leg, momentarily folding it against his chest, before he used gravity to propel himself forward and go for the head. A series of quick blows, which turned the swords into swipes of glistening grey, were either blocked or dodged until, once more, they circled their little arena.</p><p>          “Eskel is winning.” Proclaimed Jaskier who was doing his best to follow their every move with a frown of concentration. Geralt couldn’t help but look at him again with surprise bordering on confusion.</p><p>          “You can’t possibly be seeing their attacks properly”.</p><p>          “Not their attacks, no. They’re too fast.” Agreed Jaskier. “But there’s enough of a time gap between strikes to see a detail or two.”</p><p>          “Impressive.” Conceded Geralt, giving his attention to the bard even as the blue eyes did not turn to look at him and, instead, seemed to be glued to the fight. “What are you looking at?”</p><p>          “Their feet, for one. Where Eskel steps, he does it with certainty. The snow does not move. But Lambert, even when he attacks, hesitates. His steps are tiny skids.”</p><p>          “So you think Eskel is more agile, and that's why he'll win.”</p><p>          “No. That's not why.” Jaskier denied vehemently, shaking his head, sure of himself.</p><p>          Then he jumped to his feet, hands to his chest as Eskel slid through the floor and Lambert was nearly knocked down. He used his dodging jump to try and spear the other Witcher who, by the time the sword met the snow, had already rolled away.  </p><p>          Jaskier let out a loud breath and his shoulders visually relaxed as he dropped back to the floor. Then he clapped and cheered and added,</p><p>          “He has changed his attack pattern three times now and rendered Lambert uncertain as to what to expect. It looks like he responds appropriately, but he is not really attacking. He's just trying to force Eskel to do something predictable.”</p><p>          “Attack pattern you say? Quite big words for a bard.”</p><p>          “At first, he was hiding his blade and that was his upper hand. But then he chose to be blunt and quick.... Careful! Eskel don’t!...” Jaskier crawled half a step forward.</p><p>          The youngest Witcher pressed forward with an intricate set of twirls and hand swaps, sacrificing strength so that the gained speed would aid him in delivering a blow that, if not fatal, would at least be dealt to a critical spot.</p><p>          Eskel surrendered his space and walked back step by step, always using his sword to deflect the many blows in a sly, ophidian manner. The wall was getting closer and closer, promising to cage him against Lambert’s relentlessness.</p><p>          At last, Eskel's sword slid perfectly against Lambert's in such a way that it brought them close together, their hilts crashed and a choice is to be made, either let go of the sword or break a wrist. Lambert chooses wisely and as he dropped it with one hand and rushed to catch it with the other, Eskel swiftly twirled away but his strike, although it brought Lambert down to a knee in order to gain enough space to lift his blade, is stopped.</p><p>          Lambert rolled away and jumped on guard. Eskel hid his intentions behind his back once more. The silence was abruptly cut by loud cheering and whistling.</p><p>          “Gods! That was so close.” Jaskier fell back down, breathing as heavily as if he had been fighting as well. He turned to look at Geralt, wanting to share his thrill, and remembered what they were talking about. “And... uh, yeah… then he was deflecting. Why ask? You do see it. Oh, here they go again!”</p><p>          “The fight doesn’t interest me. You do. You cannot have seen that, how?”</p><p>          “The sounds. Oh, by the love of…!”</p><p>          He squeaked as a twirling sword nearly gifted him a new haircut if it weren’t for Geralt who grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away. Jaskier landed against the broad chest, bumping his forehead against the hard armour. He turned around, ready to stand up and protest, but the arm around his waist kept him nearly plastered against Geralt’s chest.</p><p>          “Lambert! You nearly killed me!”</p><p>          “Well, fucking move!”</p><p>          “Sounds?” Geralt insisted.</p><p>          “Yes. Sounds, Geralt. Sounds.” Jaskier huffed and pressed with his palms against the sides of Geralt’s face, too excited to stop himself as the words stormed his head.</p><p>          He spoke them nearly mouth to mouth as close as they stood and as eager as he was, interpreting his own thoughts as if the lap he sat on was a royal stage.</p><p>          “The crashing of the swords, can you not feel it?”</p><p>          “Feel it?” Geralt growled staring in disbelief with an arching brow.</p><p>          “At first, none.” Jaskier brought a finger to Geralt’s mouth in a shushing gesture. “The silence of the dead that awaits a fool move to claim you their own. Then, a clangour! A rage!” he opened his arms wide then clutched the wide shoulders between his hands. “Two beasts for one bone. Who shall remain?”</p><p>          “Not my patience.”</p><p>          “But now… sssh… it's the hissing of a snake, listen, listen close.” He leaned in closer until their foreheads touched, looking to the side as if an enemy would strike down and then he leaned backwards, leaning his weight against the arm that kept him there. “A lethal strike to be dealt, dare I say? A blossom from the shadows! Good gods above I need ink! I need ink!”</p><p>          The clashing of the swords restarted on his back, so he rose from Geralt’s lap -nearly jumping out of his skin- just in time to turn around and see Eskel gain the upper hand.</p><p>          Lambert's sword flew away from their arena, landing in the snow two feet away. It wasn't the dark's blossom or an all-mighty snake, but a misstep bound to happen and thus, Lambert fell to his back and rose his hands in defeat with a murderous look on his face.</p><p>          Eskel stood above him with the sword to his throat, dead serious, and then, burst out laughing, as did the youngest Wolf. They clasped their hands together and the winner pulled the loser up to his feet and they hugged tightly even if shortly as Jaskier clapped. Eskel jestingly bowed to his one-man-public and Lambert, being Lambert, simply flipped him the bird and went straight for his waterskin.</p><p>          Then, a weight landed on his shoulder. He turned his neck to see and found a wooden hilt with an uncouth, huge sphere on its end. The rest of the sword was made of wood as well, blunt and thick and probably not as heavy as it looked.</p><p>          “What?”</p><p>          “Take it. I want to see you fight.”</p><p>          “I beg your pardon?” smiled Jaskier, frowning and twirling around to let the hilt slide off his shoulder. He very resolutely let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, no, no, no-no-no. I am <em>not</em> fighting a Witcher. <em>Particularly</em> not after seeing them. <em>Definitely</em> not you.”</p><p>          “Take it.”</p><p>          “You want to train a <em>bard</em>?” spat Eskel, looking at Geralt like he had grown a second head, then added to soften his tone, looking at Jaskier. “No offence meant.”</p><p>          “None taken. I wholeheartedly agree this is the worst idea you’ve ever had and trust me, there’s <em>plenty</em> of competition.” He assured, flailing his arms around to accentuate his dumbfounded tone.</p><p>          “Like you’re one to talk.” Huffed Geralt with a deepening frown and one gain, offered the hilt quite harshly. “Take the damn sword.”</p><p>          “Fine, fine. Don’t poke me an eye out, will you?”</p><p>          Hesitatingly, Jaskier wrapped his fingers around the sword and, indeed, it wasn’t too heavy. Probably as much as his lute and the width of the hilt was lesser than its neck. Under the full attention of everyone, he tested it in his hands and found that while clearly different from a dagger, it was as easy to tell with side was the pointy one.</p><p>          “You should cut down on the White Gull, Geralt, it's starting to take a toll on you.” Said Lambert as he sat down against the wall with his water and sword at hand.</p><p>          “We’ll be rescuing Little Eye, right?” Geralt said, which got all eyes on him, especially blue eyes filled with shock and expectation.  “If you can defend yourself, the chances of success are much higher. And anyway, there's a war. You'll be safer if you can use a sword.”</p><p>          “And I agree, Geralt. I’m not a food. I’d do anything for Essi, but believe me, father tried to teach me to no avail.”</p><p>          “You didn’t have a reason to learn. Now you do.”</p><p>          Silence fell upon the courtyard as Jaskier gulped down his fears, his utmost terror at the idea of being not the witness of violence but the hand behind it.  Geralt waited as patient as always, knowing when to push and when to let a man be. Lambert threw his waterskin to Eskel and waved goodbye slothfully.</p><p>          "The old man told me to clean the chimneys so if you die I'm having your lunch, bard."</p><p>          Eskel grunted and pursed his lips then shrugged.</p><p>          "He did tell us to take care of the kitchen. Guess you'll have to show me what you learn tomorrow, Jaskier."</p><p>          "Oh, I can already fall on my ass and I've found I'm fully capable of being publicly humiliated, I could show you now." Jaskier retorted with his eyes glued to the sword as if it was some kind of futuristic strange device.</p><p>          With a hearty laugh and a shake of the head, Eskel trotted to the Keep as Lambert called out for him from within, as impatient and bristly as always.</p><p>          "Confidence is the first step, don't forget it! I believe in you!"</p><p>          Jaskier looked up from the wood and onto the golden eyes, as unreadable as usual. Geralt had no sword on his hands and just stood there with his arms crossed.</p><p>          "Don't be afraid. I won't let anything bad happen to you. This is just... in case something bad happens to <em>me</em>, and I can't keep my word."</p><p>          "Oh, don't be so humble now. It doesn’t suit you." Jaskier smiled softly, still a little hesitant. He bit his lip and looked down.</p><p>          What he had asked of the Witcher and to which he had agreed even before he knew what it was entailed a risk, even for Geralt. He could tell in the softness of his eyes that the man didn't regret his choice but at times, Jaskier regretted his own.</p><p>          Vesemir was right to say it wasn't their fight and yet, to know Geralt was willing to fight for his sake made his heart flutter, even if only due to anxiety. Realistically, he knew it was something else too.</p><p>          He still found it hard to believe that he no longer roamed the world alone from tavern to tavern, bed to bed. In a way, regardless of the dangers ahead, he had the certainty that he was as safe as he had ever been.</p><p>          But most importantly even, that there was a point to his beating heart, a goal to accomplish in a dark twisted world so that whenever he left, he left a better world behind. Geralt had given him that, willingly or not and for that, Jaskier ran out of words to express his gratitude.</p><p>          So instead, he chose to jokingly prod at the man's gut with the tip of his sword which was right away caught by a fast hand.</p><p>          "You're the White Wolf, after all. Heroes never die."</p><p>          "The White Wolf, uh? Still not letting that go?" Geralt's posture was more defensive than friendly, which came with being a Witcher, but his tone, which Jaskier had learnt to pick on, was humorous.</p><p>          "It's growing on you," Jaskier said confidently, testing the waters with an all-knowing head nod and pointing an accusatory finger. "I can tell."</p><p>          "It's definitely not. And everybody dies."</p><p>          Geralt walked over and gave Jaskier a once-over then used his foot to push Jaskier's and make him stand properly.</p><p>          Hoping to vanish the last lurking dark thoughts, Jaskier mischievously toyed with Geralt's patience, waiting to see how long it would take him to figure it out.</p><p>          When a gentle firm hand enveloped is own and adjusted his grip on the hilt, Jaskier did nothing, but as said hand move to his torso and helped him stand on guard, he slid his hands further away on the wood ever so slightly.</p><p>          Quick feline eyes caught on the change right away and with a subtle frown, Geralt repositioned the fingers and gave a squeeze so as to secure them in place. It was for nothing since as he had done that, Jaskier had slightly tilted himself forward. With a hand to his forehead, Geralt pushed him back straight.</p><p>          When he placed himself behind the bard, standing close so as to straighten his back and level his hips with a push and pull of hands, he couldn't help but notice that Jaskier's feet were in the wrong position by the tiniest angle change, which made him growl.</p><p>          "Stop playing, Jaskier. This is serious."</p><p>          "You don't <em>sound</em> serious."</p><p>          "You make it hard, smiling like a town's fool."</p><p>          Geralt mocked him, flicking him on the chin with his index to make him rise his head but that only made Jaskier smile wider, showing his teeth and as always whenever he was cheerful and spirited, a subtle blush rushed to his cheeks.</p><p>          "Are you implying you're smiling because I'm smiling?"</p><p>          The wind was knocked out of him as his back met the hard stone floor and the snow did little to soften the blow.  Geralt finished his graceful twirl with ease and that foot he had used to made him lose his footing tapped his leg in a hurrying gesture.</p><p>          "Up. Up."</p><p>          "Rude!"</p><p>          Geralt shrugged, clearly smiling more now that Jaskier was not, with his blushed cheeks and his frown and his gaping mouth.</p><p>          "Rule number one. Don't let your guard down."</p><p>          "I thought rule number one was being confident." Spat Jaskier back without any heat behind it. He got back up and readjusted the gambeson which fitted him like a potato sack would.</p><p>          "That's if you're Eskel and can cast Quen with a wrist flick. You'll do good in remembering your numerous limits."</p><p>          Quickly, Geralt readjusted Jaskier’s stance and was rather impressed to see, even if he didn’t let it show, that the bard had remember most corrections.</p><p>          "Once again, <em>rude</em>."</p><p>          “Just honest.”</p><p>          Jaskier snorted and watched as Geralt took a couple steps back to witness his creation.</p><p>          “I bet that works wonders with the ladies.” He said sarcastically.</p><p>          “With the right one, it might”</p><p>          Geralt nodded to himself, following a train thought of his own, and walked back behind Jaskier, close to him like a second shadow.</p><p>          He placed his hand on the man’s, one on the hilt, on the hip. His knees were nearly behind Jaskier’s and their chest and back met at times when they moved too much.</p><p>          “So you’re a virgin? Ingenious way to confess, I’ll give you that.”</p><p>          A knee hit his own from behind without mercy but he didn’t buckle and fall because the hands grasping his own kept him balanced.</p><p>          “Ouch.” Jaskier pretended to whisper but wasn’t angered at all. He just didn’t want to take this too seriously or otherwise his lips started to tremble as much as his hands when his heartbeat rose to make sure he knew how nearly impossible this rescue mission could be.</p><p>          “Focus.” Said the gravelly voice in his ear and a thumb caressed the back of his hand on the hilt. He gulped and let out a deep breath.</p><p>          “<em>Focus, focus. </em>Easy for you, you don’t have someone breathing on your ear.” Jaskier rumbled.</p><p>          Slowly, Geralt made him move his hand this way and that showing him two ways he could parry a simple blow.</p><p>          One from the right, which got Geralt leaning against Jaskier's back to make him bend and push his forward shoulder over there and then took his hand and guided it from the centre to the bottom right with a firm swift move. As he did, he noticed that Jaskier was breathing shallowly and his shoulders were as tense as his grip on the sword.</p><p>          Then one from the left. From where they stood, he took his hand and made him slash across the air as he was swatting away a fly and left his hand up and left. To follow the move, he crouched slightly and slid his left leg under Jaskier's, placed his foot in the inner side of his and used that tiny lock to make him slide his leg to the left side to imbue with strength the counterattack.</p><p>          As he did, he could feel that hand on his hip interlock its fingers with his own and Jaskier let out a shaky breath and glanced behind his back, turning his neck faintly and as golden eyes met blue ones, he quickly looked back forward.</p><p>          “Jaskier. I know you’re terrified. Don’t be. It will only make it harder.”</p><p>          He waited for a sign that the man was ready to go on, relaxed shoulders or even breath, but it never came. Instead, those interlocked fingers gripped his own tighter as if they could draw strength from them and Jaskier, as best as he could as they stayed back to front, turned his neck to meet Geralt's eye.</p><p>          There were one too many feelings in those cornflower blue pools than the Witcher dare to count so he just squeezed back with the hand on the hip and hoped with all honesty that was the right answer. He wanted it to be the right answer.</p><p>          “Just… I can’t help but need to know.”</p><p>          “Yes?”</p><p>          “Do you regret it?” was asked in but a whisper.</p><p>          Barely a faint breath shaped around feared words that left those pink lips as long lashes fanned downwards and guarded the eyes from the response of the golden ones, which were feared worse than even stuttering does words.</p><p>          “Agreeing to help you?”</p><p>          “Yes.”</p><p>          Geralt considered it for a second and found right away, he needn’t to. The answer, unlike usual, nearly leaped to his face and knocking him out cold with its obviousness. He didn’t hesitate.</p><p>          “No. I don’t. I’ve never regretted knowing you, or what it has entailed.”</p><p>          Those eyes were once again looking at him, suddenly and beautifully in a show of blinking eyelashes and gleaming yearning with a dash of confusion, the kind one has when a notice is too good.</p><p>          “Why? You and I… we are nothing alike. I thought you’d always see me as a bother, if I may be honest.” Then he tried to joke, but it fell short with his nervous laughter. “Still remember that gut punch you gave me.”</p><p>          “I don’t know.”</p><p>          Jaskier turned his face away and as close as they were, basically fitted into an embrace,  Geralt could both hear and feel his rushing heartbeat against his chest, could tell the hard swallow of saliva and yet, there was a slumping of shoulders as shy hopefulness overtook Jaskier.</p><p>          “Maybe… it’s fine not to know.”</p><p>          Just as the last of Jaskier’s words hesitatingly left his mouth, so did the first of Geralt’s march onwards without doubt or shame. He whispered his thoughts to his ear and found that there was indeed a strength to be drawn from the tight hold of their hands that anchored them there where they wanted to be right now, in close proximity, themselves, honest and willing to be what the other needed.</p><p>          “If it’s fine with you, it’s fine with me.”</p><p>          “What does that mean?” asked Jaskier and when he, without refined senses, could tell there was a lurking fear blossoming behind him, he tasted its sourness on his own tongue and knowing it to be too familiar for comfort, were he not in that safe embrace, he said the words that’d bring him comfort. “I won’t judge.”</p><p>          It took a second as the wind blew and brought some dying leaves, stirred the snow, filled their lungs anew with the chance of a change.</p><p>          “People usually want more from me. Something they think I can give and that I cannot even name.”</p><p>          “Well, I just want the White Wolf.”</p><p>          “But who is that truly, Jaskier? Do you know?”</p><p>          Those fingers held tighter to his own and even pulled from his hand to bring him closer, close enough to close the small gap between them and fuse their body heats in one.</p><p>          “Whoever he grows to be. A man unlike before, unlike the Butcher. A man I stand behind.”</p><p>          “Let’s stay with me behind, for now, it’ll be easier to teach you.” He tried to joke, without sarcasm or sourness, and it worked, it earned him a chuckle from the man in his arms and a joyful smile and an energetic nod. It filled him with warmth, the kind he hadn’t realized to have missed so dearly.</p><p>          “Sir, yes, sir.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think I like this chapter better if only because it's absolutely fitted for my own needs. I chose not to be as picky with every detail and let them be however they came to me. I think it might have come out a little playful but after seeing how Geralt interacted at that drinking scene with his brothers at Kaer Morhen in Witcher 3, I personally think is not too far fetched.<br/>Anyway, this is the fic that beats my university-birthed apathy to its dark ugly corner, so I hope it can make you happier too.<br/>Stay strong in this trying times, stay safe.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The power of White Gull</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>          Two weeks later, winter had settled in the halls of Kaer Morhen. It threatened to freeze Jaskier when he took a bath by the kitchen fire and no amount of layers ever made him feel warm enough to his liking. Luckily, he had been busy enough not to have time to complain.</p><p>          He now rose with the sun as did the rest of the Witchers. It was the most advisable choice to make since they no longer showed mercy to his portion of breakfast if he wasn't there to eat it. That was fine with him. If there was one thing Jaskier had learnt, besides a dozen tiny differences in every monster kind, was that the way to make room for himself was to be useful, honest and joyful. Nothing out of the ordinary for him, if he did say so himself.</p><p>          Lazy mornings were spent under daylight in the balcony, sitting cross-legged amidst an empire of books and notes. At times, Vesemir would sit close by with tasks of his own and Jaskier would bog him with questions until the Witcher dropped the quill and politely demanded silence.</p><p>          Other days, he had not the time to ask, when creativity came to him in a rush and all he could do was struggle to keep up as he filled his new notebook with music and lyrics.</p><p>          Busy mornings were a different game, even if rarer. Jaskier had found himself dressed in the finest sooty when his turn with the chimneys came. He had had the fiercest battles against cobwebs, dust and the occasional thief with large ears, a pointy tail and a love for cheese.</p><p>          His had been the duty of finally classifying and organising the library, keeping a neat alphabetical record of each volume and then, just to showoff, another version depicting each section by theme.</p><p>          To put it simply, he had earned his right to a hearty lunch every day and with it the right to mingle with the rest of the Witchers which made him the happiest he had been in months and quenched his fears and anxiety until the moon came.</p><p>          However, that lovely morning had gotten the best of him.</p><p>          Jaskier had opened his eyes with Geralt's knock on the door, which he gave every morning out of his own will. Eager to know what books Vesemir would give him since he had proven to know the last of them yesterday, he pushed off the blankets.</p><p>          His clothes were now borrowed from Geralt as there was a dire need to stay clean for the sake of the finer senses of the Witchers, and that need extended to sweated clothes. They fit him a little baggy but not overly long and allowed him to go through his day without much ado.</p><p>          Now that he had made the library his home until further notice, a morning ritual had been born. He'd brush his hair with a wide-tooth comb in one hand and a shattered hand mirror in the other, splash his face with water in a wide metal bowl and pat his lute goodbye, then he'd close the door behind.</p><p>          Breakfast went by in the blink of an eye. Crammed between Geralt and Eskel, Jaskier did his best to battle for the best pieces of breakfast and let his sneaky hands show no mercy to the enemy who left their food unattended.</p><p>          In between mouthfuls of porridge, they shared lively conversations. Jaskier had learnt many things by listening closely to their stories, things about the world but also about the men who sat at the table.</p><p>          Now he knew Geralt and Eskel had been known to be as brilliant as mischievous and Vesemir had laughed and nodded one morning at the balcony, confirming Jaskier that he had indeed tanned their backside a pretty red more times than he cared to remember.</p><p>          Jaskier didn't put up a fight as Eskel's retelling of his best adventures threatened to swipe him off his feet; the tension always led to a hilarious ending that was too good not to be enjoyed. It was easy to see that Eskel liked the attention. He was prone to camaraderie and fun and it made it easier for Jaskier to integrate.</p><p>          Geralt's help tended to be much more practical -saving the tender piece of deer for him, massaging sore muscles after training, teaching him how to wrap his hands to avoid blisters- and although it made Jaskier smile softly and warmed him in ways that his clothes couldn't, Geralt was still as sarcastic and calm as ever, which Jaskier adored all the same but didn’t come off as helpful around the table.</p><p>          Lambert was the hardest to understand, but Jaskier was starting to get the knack of him. The man, much like a pendulum, seemed to sway between falling for Jaskier's clever remarks, just the right side of mocking, and keeping up his never-ending judgment as to whether the bard deserved a place in Kaer Morhen.</p><p>          He had once sworn to Jaskier that Eskel had done fisstech and fucked a succubus -potentially at the same time- as the bard did his best to get him out of the stables Lambert was convinced were his bedroom after a few too many drinks. Ever since then, things were just as bumpy but now they both enjoyed the wild ride. After all, it was <em>Lambert</em> who sat in front of him; the Wolf who made friends with Bears, Vipers and even Cats - a bard wasn't a too farfetched possibility.</p><p>          "So, little lark, ready for today?" Eskel threw his arm across Jaskier's shoulders.</p><p>          Jaskier squinted his eyes to the wide smile the Witcher sported and felt wary of the amused snort of Lambert's -if it amused the young Wolf, it meant trouble for someone else.</p><p>          "If you make it out alive today, I'll accept it; you'll deserve your place here, even if you headbutted your way into our lives."</p><p>          "That's the most passive-aggressive threat I've ever heard," chuckled Jaskier. "May you share the plan for this exciting day ahead? It's only fair to know how I'll die."</p><p>          Eskel clapped him in the shoulder with a sharp laugh and stood up right away so Jaskier turned to Geralt, getting genuinely worried.</p><p>          “What? Where’s Vesemir?”</p><p>          As his brother rounded the table and gathered the bowls and spoons and jugs in his hands, Geralt too patted Jaskier's back and that gesture was what managed to make him shiver.</p><p>          “Geralt?” he watched the Witcher stand up and stretch, then shrug his shoulders as he headed to the main door. Lambert followed.</p><p>          "Just a heads-up. You're still training this afternoon."</p><p>          Jaskier just frowned and huffed, annoyed that he wasn’t trusted yet with the details of what Vesemir commanded, wherever the man was at that moment.</p><p>          “Go.” Eskel ordered when he saw that Jaskier still sat there. “I’ll catch up.”</p><p>          Eskel stood by the cauldron that was away from the fire, which they filled with melted snow and in where they left the tableware so the food wouldn’t dry up and make it harder to clean.</p><p>          Jaskier checked the weight of his waterskin hanging from his new belt and finding no excuse to linger, he chose to face the day ahead.</p><p>          As he neared the door, he caught a glimpse of Eskel moving to the other side of the room and slipped behind a column in a heartbeat. Peeking, he watched the Witcher head over to one of the chests by the row of swords.</p><p>          From it, he picked several thick ropes and looped them around his shoulder and held them there with one hand. Eskel snapped his head up abruptly and slowly turned his head towards the entrance.</p><p>          Jaskier pressed himself tight against the stone and contained a giggle. He had always been the greatest at hide and seek growing up to the point it made other kids angry and his father had asked the king's sorceress to probe him for magical abilities. Whatever the woman had said, his father had forbidden him to play anymore.</p><p>          He would have never guessed had he not seen it with his own eyes following Geralt up the Gwenllech that it could work with a Witcher. They always heard him in the end, but it took a second and it always left them puzzled.</p><p>          “Jaskier?”</p><p>          “No?” he giggled.</p><p>          “Please,” Eskel said with that tone that meant that he was serious. Jaskier came out of his hiding right away with his hands in the air and twirled on his feet.</p><p>          “Fine. Fine. Can’t blame a man like me for being curious.”</p><p>          Eskel huffed and kicked the chest close.</p><p>          “If it were up to you, you wouldn’t be to blame for anything at all.”</p><p>          “And wouldn’t that be a perfect world?” smiled Jaskier as pushed the door open.</p><p>          When he went out into the courtyard he was greeted by snowflakes that fell gently as far as the eye could see. The calm grey sky gave the mountain an aura of peace and tranquillity. The sun, which was already rising between the mountain valleys, invited the animals to fill the forest with their noises.</p><p>          Jaskier buttoned his coat and pulled on his gloves and quickly caught up with Lambert on the drawing bridge, who gave him a glance and then smiled, pretty excited with whatever troubles -for Jaskier- laid ahead.</p><p>          “This way, my lady.”</p><p>          Jaskier rolled his eyes but followed him not far away where the other Witcher waited.</p><p>          Geralt walked them down a small dirt road and when Jaskier got close enough, he pointed to the gap between himself and Lambert so that he'd stay as safe as possible between their Witcher swords.</p><p>          Not eager to know what kind of dangers lived in the forest around the keep, Jaskier obeyed and limited himself to peeking over the broad shoulders.</p><p>          The answers laid not far ahead but before them came the trot of a horse. Jaskier leapt towards Geralt and grabbed his gambeson but a moment later, Scorpion appeared behind Lambert.</p><p>          Eskel nodded a greeting to them from the saddle as he gracefully got down from it without delaying their advance. With quick hands, always covered in his strange gloves, he passed one axe to Lambert who spun it on his hand.</p><p>          "Here we are." Geralt informed and right away stepped to the side, now used to Jaskier reacting slow to his abruptness and crashing against his back.</p><p>          It was just another piece of the forest but clearly they had been there before. Some trees had been cut down and others had marks on them. Oak, ash and maple were the kinds they seemed to be looking for.</p><p>          Behind the trees was a rudimentary obstacle course, definitely as old as some of the trees. From the end of the path Jaskier could see two parallel wooden walls of about three meters and two hooks on the edge at a safe distance between them. On the other side of the floor were several frayed bags, yellow so old that you could guess the color of the stones inside.</p><p>          Across the clearing several wooden beams were lined up, nailed firmly to the ground and at the exposed end, metal attached them to what looked like a wooden ladder although its bars lay far further apart than normal.</p><p>          "Just to be sure. Am I to choose which way I want to die?" Jaskier gestured over the area with a nervous hand and turned to Geralt with big blue eyes, the kind that’d trick his nanny into giving him another biscuit. "My whole body is already crumbling thanks to you. This is no humane way of forcing a man to the parting shot of this life."</p><p>          "Stop making a fuss, Jaskier. We don't intend to have you chop down a tree. We have seen you bathing."</p><p>          Jaskier opened his mouth wide, frowned and crossed his arms, then, against his better judgment, tilted his head and asked.</p><p>          "What is <em>that</em> supposed to mean?"</p><p>          "Means you're weak as a boy, obviously," said Lambert without care as he passed by them with the axe resting against his shoulder. He headed straight to a tree and got to work as patience wasn’t his virtue.  </p><p>          “Oh, please, this is unfathomably ridiculous. What’s worse! You genuinely think my biggest concern as of now are those trees.” He, dramatically offended, pointed an aggressive finger to the obstacle course. “There is no need to go to these extremes. Eskel, you surely must agree?</p><p>          “Learn from a Witcher, train like a Witcher.” He sentenced as he tied his faithful gelding and passed the ropes to Geralt. “You’ll be glad when you have to run from the Nilfgardians.”</p><p>          Jaskier took in a deep breath, glanced again at the course, then at Geralt, then at the course and back at those amused golden eyes. Even that man made of stone was cracking a smile on sight of his paling face.</p><p>          “See, I was thinking a more subtle approach than rolling around in the dirt and climbing fences.” His face turned into a grimace and his hands gestured over to the fate that awaited him. Geralt tilted his head and an arched brow joined his warm smile. “If you don’t mind some constructive criticism, I’d be more useful in our little rescue mission if I am, well, still alive for it.”</p><p>          “You’ve got what it takes to do this.” Geralt placed his hand in his shoulder and squeezed comfortingly, looking him straight in the eyes with conviction. “If things go wrong, I don’t want to bury you. You have to be ready for anything.”</p><p>          Jaskier felt his resolve crumble and sighed as his fidgeting hands fell to his sides. He looked to the floor, gathered his courage and looked back up with renewed determination.</p><p>          “For little Eye.”</p><p>          “Absolutely.”</p><p>          Geralt nodded and rubbed his arm in a fluid motion before he gently pushed him to move. Jaskier gulped and squared his shoulders.</p><p>          “I am going to hate this, am I not?”</p><p>          “Absolutely.”</p><p>          That day they ate later than normal. Until the last piece of firewood was cut, Geralt clung like a shadow to Jaskier and, in his brusque manner, encouraged him to continue training. There were no kind and unnecessary words, just water when needed and a literal push to reach the last bar or climb to the edge of the wall.</p><p>          When Jaskier felt that he couldn't take it anymore, sweating like a pig under his clothes, exhausted and dizzy, Geralt made him sit down, take a deep breath, and waited next to him until on his own, the bard rose again. He was nothing if not determined and there was a certain strength to be found in looking someone in the eyes and knowing they believe you can do it. That they’re there to watch you do it, succeed. What else was there to do, but try?</p><p>          Still, Jaskier was but a man and Eskel's whistle sounded as if it came from heaven itself. Jaskier had heard it before; it meant the end of a mission.</p><p>          He dropped to the ground, not caring where the stone-filled sack ended, face up like a dead animal. Geralt crouched down next to him and offered him the water but ended up resigning himself to holding Jaskier with one arm so that he would straighten up enough and help him drink.</p><p>          They made the way back to the other Witchers and Scorpion who carried the chopped firewood on his sides. Lambert clapped slowly and -for once- not sarcastically, ruffled Jaskier’s hair and took the horse’s reins to guide it. It made the bard smile wide and happy up to Geralt who had his hand curled around his arm in case he staggered. He got the tiniest smile and the proudest nod in return.</p><p>          When they got back to Kaer Morhen, he still couldn't feel his legs. He dropped to the table where Geralt released him and very willingly devoured the large plate that Eskel placed before him, even though his eyelids closed at times.</p><p>          He didn't notice when he was barely awake, with his head resting on his arm on the table, trying to listen to the conversation and when he was already drooling over the borrowed clothes, snoring softly, but suddenly, one thing had become the other.</p><p>          “Are you even listening?” growled Lambert, trying to hit Eskel with the spoon he threw but that White Gull had already started to make its magic on him. It flew by the side of the Witcher but the brunette didn’t move his head from where it rested on the back of his hand, eyes fixed on an asleep Jaskier.</p><p>          “To your exaggeration of how you killed that kikimora? There’s better things to do here”</p><p>          The kitchen fires were quite strong that day and they warmed the room to the point that there was a lovely pink dusted across the high cheeks, a perfect match to those perfectly shaped lips. Long lashes casted shadows upon pale unmarred skin and with every tiny snore, a lock of shiny brown hair danced up and down in an endearing manner.  </p><p>          “Losing your dignity over a bard.” Snorted Lambert, crossing his arms across his chest and giving a questioning nod. “What? Succubus not enough for you now?”</p><p>          “Hey, we already have one Vesemir here.” Eskel let his face go from soft, gazing to the gentle features, to a glare. “Cut it with the dress down.”</p><p>          “Said the one who’s usually stiff like a cutting board.” Lambert shrugged, trying to get a rise out of Eskel as per usual, but the scarred face had turned back to that strange calm, not unlike someone who takes in the beauty of a flower.</p><p>          On his sleep, Jaskier made a faint whine, pliant and breathy, which made the calmness of Eskel turn into a sided smile and a lick of lips.</p><p>          “Maybe it’s time I let loose… my pants.”</p><p>          Geralt growled and planted his jug firmly against the table, making both Witchers turn their attention to him and Jaskier frowned, still asleep, and got more comfortable. Geralt waited for his face to fall back into the blank state of blissful slumber.</p><p>          “Enough. You two only think with the head downstairs any time you drink. Show some respect to the man.”</p><p>          “Uh, uh, sorry.” Lambert mocked him in a high tone with his hands in the air, then pointed at Jaskier across the table rudely. “Is it claimed territory or what?”</p><p>          Eskel slammed his palms against the table and rose slightly, leaning forward.</p><p>          “So you <em>do </em>like him! Hah!” he pointed an accusatory finger to Lambert’s wrinkled nose and raised lip. “Caught you.”</p><p>          “He’s not as much of an idiot as he could be, so what?”</p><p>          “Lambert. He could hear you.” Geralt sighed, drinking down the rest of his jug and resigning himself to the impossibilities of changing those two -not that he wanted to. The walls were starting to spin around so he let Eskel pour himself the last of the bottle without a word.</p><p>          “You’re so protective of him. It’s even worse than Eskel.”</p><p>Lambert nearly spat the name out like it was a curse, gesturing with disdain to the Witcher who had eyes only for what slept in front of him but had the caution of showing his brother the middle finger, in case there was any doubt as to what his opinion was.</p><p>          “What is he to you anyway?” insisted Lambert.</p><p>          “A friend.”</p><p>          Geralt pushed away the jug and did his best to focus back his gaze. He could hear himself as well as the others and how sluggish their words were. He hadn’t realized he had drunk so much; the conversation had been too engulfing.</p><p>          “Yes, yes, we heard that one before.” Snickered Eskel, throwing him a teasing side glance. With a gentle hand, as if he was reaching out to a fawn, he moved the swaying lock of brown hair from Jaskier’s face as it itched his nose and made him frown. “Won’t cut it, though.”</p><p>          “It’s the truth,” said Geralt.</p><p>          He was drunk enough to entertain the thought of Jaskier lying in his arms in the dead of night, willing and warm, but not drunk enough to seriously consider it, as tempting as a bed companion could be in winter – whoever he or she were.</p><p>          No, Jaskier wasn’t the type of person he’d use for a night. It simply wasn’t something he’d do to a someone who wanted a better life for him to the point they had consecrated their life and efforts to it.</p><p>          He had a heart, after all, which was easier to admit when it was beating above a sea of mashed potatoes, venison and White Gull. And he knew Jaskier had one too, which if he was to believe the bard’s never-ending tales of his own life, had been broken one too many times.</p><p>          “It’s not the whole truth,” Lambert called him out, speaking through a yawn, so either too drunk or too bored already. He scratched his chest and checked the empty bottom of his jug with a saddened twist of lips.  </p><p>          “Yeah. Spit it out. It’s obvious anyway. Even the old man knows something’s up.”</p><p>          Geralt sighed, tired of their games. He rested his arms on the table and looked down to the side, to Jaskier and his gambeson he was drooling over.</p><p>          He wouldn’t be so blind as to deny the man was attractive. Not in a manly way, with his features resembling so much those of an elf, but also not like a woman. It was simply Jaskier, much like with everything else that had to do with the man.</p><p>          It made Geralt think of summer rain, the kind you think it’s not that big of a deal and march on under it until it has seeped trough your clothes and into your bones and it’s now as if it were part of you. It’s so warm and welcomed under the blazing sun, Geralt doesn’t even care.</p><p>          Lambert pointedly clears his throat and when Geralt looks upfront again to his brothers, he fins Eskel still has a looped smile and an mischievous arched brow.</p><p>          “I like it better when you two don’t get along.”</p><p>          This wasn’t the first time they had a similar conversation in the past two weeks and it was turning into a constant headache he found no answer to.</p><p>          A few moments of silence pass by and all that changes is the patter of snores, but the Witchers still look at Geralt as if expecting an all-out heart-wrenching confession, which won’t happen because Geralt firmly tells himself that -him and Jaskier- is simply something not meant to happen.</p><p>          “Nothing’s up.” He says, and he tries not to sound defensive. “Jaskier is a good man, most of the time. He’s got wits, he’s fun and he hold his weight. What do you care if he follows me? He’s not a bother. He gets into trouble from time to time, but it’s nothing we each can’t be blamed for ourselves”</p><p>          “Oh, I’m not a saint but ever since when do <em>you</em> put up with other’s bullshit?”</p><p>          Eskel huffs in amusement to Lambert’s words and slyly shrugs and gestures to Jaskier and says something that makes the youngest wolf roll his eyes.</p><p>          “I mean, I’d put up with anything he’d give me, anytime.”</p><p>          “We got that part, Eskel. Hell, even he got that part probably.”</p><p>          With that, the man turns to his childhood friend and insists one last time not because he particularly cares if Geralt gets laid, but because it was due time that someone else came into his brother’s life. Someone who could fix that broken heart in a way that Eskel hadn’t managed himself, even if it pained him to admit it.</p><p>          “Come on, Geralt, we’re not children anymore. Vesemir will probably not get the belt out. If you want something, you should go get it.”</p><p>          Geralt finds the strength and balance to stand up at last, holding tight to the edge of the table, and dryly announces to the table with as much solemnity as a drunk man can have;</p><p>          “I want nothing.”</p><p>          He tries to get his legs to the other side of the bench without falling face first, which takes him a hot second and a frown of concentration. He’ll never allow Lambert to brew the alcohol again.</p><p>          “And there he goes,” the youngest Witcher roars, opening his arms wide and nearly slapping Eskel in the face, who clumsily grabs his wrist and pushes it away with a comical glare. “…the mighty White Wolf, the greatest of his generation, hides away in the face of the truth. A coward!”</p><p>          Jaskier whines on his sleep, coils tighter into the embrace of his own arms and his eyes move under his lids.</p><p>          “Shut up. You’ll wake him up. And don’t call me that, it’ll stick.”</p><p>          “Yeah, don’t want him to hear the truth, do you?” Lambert hollers again, because he’s a prick like that. It finally wakes Jaskier up and he blinks slowly, then rubs at one eye and speaks through a mouth filled with thick saliva.</p><p>          “Truth?” he mumbles, confused as to how long he has been sleeping and if he has been asked something. He was sure he heard a question.</p><p>          He slowly straightens himself on his sit and there, in front of him, like vultures, are Eskel and Lambert and their disturbingly wide smiles.</p><p>          Jaskier stands up slow to show mercy to his aching body and accepts the swaying hand Geralt offers a little way off from where Jaskier actually is. It feels nice to hold his hand, even if he’s pretty sure he could bring him down right now if he wanted to with how much he reeks of alcohol.  </p><p>          “It’s nothing. Drunks’ talk.” Geralt twists the hand in his own so he can look at the bandages across the palm and rubs at it gently with his thumb. “Come, let’s check your hands upstairs and you can sleep until training.”</p><p>          Jaskier points at the other Witchers with his free hand but let’s the man pull him away from the table slowly and doesn’t turn his wary gaze from the two hyenas on the table that very closely resemble Eskel and Lambert.</p><p>          “Why are they smiling like that? Geralt?”</p><p>          “Hmm.” He growls, not wanting to answer to that. Not now. Probably not ever. What would the point be, anyway? That’s what he tells himself. “Let’s go.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry for going MIA. Lockdown and University are an awful combination, especially as the exams get nearer. Anyway, I'm not here to complain about my chaotic life, I'm here to apologize for the delay and I hope you're ready to see how three Witchers try their own hand at courting a feral charming bard.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Or if by love's blind chance we've been bound.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>          Jaskier lets Geralt check his palms although he knows there isn’t a single wound in them; the wrappings and the borrowed leather gloves do serve their purpose. There’s something unsettling about watching the drunk Witcher and it’s hard to look away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          It's not quite like he lets his guard down but he certainly doesn't look as imposing. His emotions, caused by whatever nonsense his brain is munching over, come and go like the wind and Jaskier can see them reflected in the area around his eyes and the glimmer of their gold, even as the rest of Geralt remains collected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          His forehead wrinkles ever so slightly as he focuses his attention to the palm he holds between his hands, quite close to his face. His rough thick fingers envelop the back of Jaskier's hands except for the thumbs which rub over and over the expanse of skin. They are very insistent on the calluses at the edges of his palm, where his index and little finger grow. Those,  unlike his hardened fingerpads, are new.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier smiles softly yet confused when Geralt hmms and nods with certainty before he moves to the other hand, which he watches just as closely. Then, golden eyes snap up and pierce Jaskier into place better than a spear would. The frown deepens, Geralt tilts his head slightly and lets out a different hmm, a more irritated one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "Back to the old days, I see." Jaskier tries to joke but it only makes Geralt squint his eyes and purse his lips faintly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He then shakes his head with a grunt and his thumbs swipe through the skin again, with confidence, over and over. It feels rather pleasant with how much Jaskier has been abusing his hands lately but it's hard to feel anything other than lost when Geralt hasn't said a single word in half an hour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Finding his nearly imperceptible swaying amusing, Jaskier had been happy to let himself be guided through the keep he now knew well by the grip Geralt had had on his wrist. He had contained a chuckle when at the end of the stairs Geralt had mumbled something incomprehensible and looked both ways and then at the floor like it had offended him personally.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier, keen on the idea of going back to sleep, had pointed the way to the library as if the immense empty hall could in any way deceive the eyes. The door was just over there, and that's where Geralt finally looked and he grunted something and pulled from Jaskier's wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He had pushed Jaskier inside, closed the door rather brusquely -Jaskier could have sworn he shocked himself with the bang it made- and headed to the many blankets that lay on top of the wooden pallets. Without delay, he started scrunching them and twisting them and in the end, there was a strange cocoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          In the gap in its middle, he had sat Jaskier, pushing him down from the shoulders, and thus he had ended up surrounded by the covers like had thrown the over himself a little hastily. It had been a matter of minutes before he had unwrapped his hands and maybe time meant nothing to Geralt when he was drunk, but he had been stroking insistently Jaskier's tired muscles all round his palm and forearms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          That wasn't what made Jaskier feel lost. Every afternoon, once the practice was over -and it never felt like it would ever be over- Geralt and he sat at the library, or at the bench outside, or anywhere calm, and as they went over more theoretical lessons that Jaskier found as interesting as useless to battle a Nilfgaardian soldier, Geralt would masterfully and bluntly take care of Jaskier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          At first, it had been shocking enough to give the bard a heart attack and lose track of the lesson, which earned him a glare and the question repeated. He had dared to ask, at the end of the first week, where did that come from. Geralt hadn't batted an eye, he nearly looked offended in his stoicism. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "It's important that you can work every day. I doubt you'd have the patience to do this properly and winter only has so many days, we can't run the risk." That's what he had said as if it was common sense. “We are sitting here for the next hour, anyway. So again, what is the difference between a recurve bow and a longbow?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          And Jaskier could have retorted that he was capable of taking care of himself, even if he wasn't quite sure what it was exactly that Geralt did that felt so good and left him nearly fresh new, but he didn't. He had spent far too many days rushing after Roach, ignoring glares and jibes and a thousand reasons as to why befriending a Witcher was like hoping gold would rain, to look a gifted horse in the mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          His lids are getting heavier by the minute and the cocoon is so warm and cosy around him that he might just fall asleep as he was promised he could do but the funniest part of it is Geralt seems to be falling asleep too as his eyes follow the hypnotizing tracing of his own thumbs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "What do you think about? You're so focused," asks Jaskier in an attempt to stay awake. Geralt looks up and his gaze dances around the face in front of him lingers on the lips and eventually settles on the bluest eyes he can remember seeing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "I'm drunk," he says, and it's not meant to be for Jaskier but for himself, but it just slips out. It's a warning to keep his own mouth shut before his tangled mind comes up with something dangerous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Geralt tries to look away but is not strong enough to get away from the calm it gives him. It quiets the storm that is his mind but ignites his chest, burning like the embers of the brazier. He quickly closes his eyes and squeezes that hand between his and waits for the pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          But it doesn't hurt and it worries him, he swallows hard and tries to keep quiet, but the words that he has never been able to say accumulate in his throat and threaten to choke him and Geralt has never wanted to die, but perhaps it is time. It terrifies him less than jumping into the void. Yes, he’s sure, he prefers to choke to death; that way, he’d die alone. He doesn’t need to take Jaskier with him, he can’t be that selfish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "I can tell,” Jaskier whispers softly because he’s not used to this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He doesn’t think he’ll ever be, with how out of the blue it always happens, almost as if Geralt needs to keep Jaskier off guard to let his own guard down. He uses his free hand and puts it on their joined ones and stills all movement except the frantic beating of their hearts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          And then, just by hearing his voice, that tone that makes Geralt think of times before his mother's cart rattled off and the doors closed and sealed his destiny, he no longer feels the void waiting for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He opens his eyes, and there is no void. It is a blue sea, a calm sea now.  He has seen those eyes say so much and is terrified that one day, they could look at him and say nothing, go mute, go cold. He has seen them enraged, a rough sea, with high tides, as in that tavern in Ban Gléan, moving away from Dol Blathana and its elves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          If he closed his eyes again, he was sure that he could see that slender figure in front of him again, with his arms akimbo and the new lute on his back, reproaching the innkeeper for the lack of shame in denying entry to the Witcher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier was human, he got afraid often, but he never seemed to care if he reeked of fear or not, as if that was just meant to be, and courage wasn’t the absence of fear but the will to do what must be done -or what you’d like, Geralt dares to hope- regardless of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "On your first night here you asked me if I feared that you would get hurt by my hand. If I was afraid I'd hurt you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "I did.” Jaskier agrees and a smile curves his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Their friendship is young and abnormal and not meant to be, but it’s grown strong and Jaskier is proud of it. Is proud of having walked up to the man who looked like he needed a reason to smile, brooding in a corner, drinking alone. Now the world is bigger, brighter, better because Jaskier feels he’s got a reason to be in it. He doesn’t know why or what it means but he knows what he feels and he’s never been ashamed of his heart a moment in his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He lets it guide his moves because it’s never failed him before and as he drops back into the cocoon of blankets and the light of day that falls from the skylight bathes them, he brings Geralt down with him. The wooden pallets creak in the silence of the library and while the golden eyes don’t show much, Jaskier can tell Geralt is startled so he tries to lighten up the tension because whatever it is that lays ahead, he knows they don’t need to make it harder than it is by default. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He’s tired and he feels like crying because there’s always pent up sadness and frustration in the back of his head and terrible thoughts that won’t leave him, but now it’s not the time to crumble but to be a stepping stone, so he chuckles -tries to- and shakes their joined hands in a playful manner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “It was quite a heated moment, wasn't it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "Hmm." the Witcher is looking at their hands and slowly brings his gaze up the arms and the chest and onto the face of Jaskier where he, yet again, roams around the high cheeks and the blush that never quite leaves. "But I didn't answer the question. Nor any other."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "Not technically, no.” Jaskier shrugs with his gentle smile still on and the warmth of the blankets it’s making him sleepy again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He uses the hand that lies on top of Geralt’s to caress all skin he can reach. There are scars and a bump where the ulna bone did not weld well back together. The hair is silvery, nearly unseeable, and rather soft. His palm grazes above it and it tickles him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier licks his lips and looks back up and finds those captivating cat eyes never left him, so he breaks the silence again but does so gently, like a leaf falling upon a calm lake breaks the perfectly calm surface of the water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “I've told you, that's alright with me. I don’t need to know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "It isn't... with me. Not anymore." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Geralt sees the fear rush to those eyes and it hurts now. He hates that he can never say the right thing but he especially despises that even as he can tell Jaskier wants to break apart, the man won’t. He’s the bravest when he’s afraid and Geralt… Geralt is simply a coward, he tells himself. The Witcher hears Jaskier every night -the nightmares, the insomnia-; he waits by the door, not sure what for, but he never knocks until the sun rises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Now he lays in the blankets with Jaskier and there’s not a lot of space to be comfortable, the pallets creek and their entangled hands barely fit between their chests where they rest as they lay on their side and Geralt watches the fear in those eyes and thinks, for once, he ought to try and dispel it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          "My life is the life of a weapon in many ways. To live -survive- this way, although a Witcher has a heart and a mind, maybe a soul even if damned, one must pretend he doesn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          The hand in his forearm stills for a breath - a breath Jaskier holds back. What a wicked thing to do and how badly it makes Geralt want to take everything back. He’d rather be coward than cruel. His eyes close so he doesn’t have to look Jaskier in the eye and feel tempted to let the man take a leap of faith. Geralt is neither a god nor a believer, he’s only a Witcher and that has never been enough. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How foolish</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve been to hope. This oldest pain is not the kind to fade. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>          And the ambers in his chest slowly writhe and they’re nearly extinguished when that hand with new callouses wraps around his arm and by pressing, instils a warmth in Geralt that spreads up and around and he opens his eyes with a refrained gasp. There’s no fear in the sea. As vast and unknown as it is, with as many emotions as it can convey, Geralt doesn’t see fear, nor is afraid to get lost in its tides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “That’s not fair.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “No, it’s not. There’s no justice in this world, Jaskier. But there are other things, perhaps even more important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          With a sigh, and a certainty to be doing what is right -it certainly feels right-, he confesses as if he were at a temple, in a whisper, and with all the honesty that he owes the one soul who looked his way long enough to see past the glamour and clangour of a Witcher to the loneliness, the guilt, the kid whose mother left him and that lays behind all that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “I was raised to be a Witcher and if I might be honest while alcohol clouds my better judgment, I’ve failed.” There’s a weight that lifts from his chest and it gives him the nerve to keep going. “I don’t know what went wrong, or if anything was ever right. I guess we always knew it was a lie, that we couldn’t have desires, or hopes, or fears. It was a lie to keep us going… to make us think, as we were strapped to the table and pumped full of mutagens on a stomach filled with mushrooms, that there’d be a day when we’d feel no more”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “And it scares you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “It does. And it excites me. Confuses me, most of all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “You could talk with Eskel.” Jaskier says and as he does, he can tell Geralt already has. Of course, he has. Still, it’s the wise thing to say, so he finishes the thought. “He’s family to you, surely he must have thoughts of his own on the matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “I know what he thinks but it can’t help me. You…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          It’s not fair for Jaskier to have to tear the barricade apart. He already has enough to fight for and against, and Geralt would never want to be cruel to him. There’s plenty of things he wishes he could be for those he holds dear and maybe there’s a place to start in saying the truths that he didn’t speak that first night, in the library. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “You’re like a wave, and I’m like a cliff and I have a feeling it’s meant to be, that you’ll stripe me down of my defences regardless of what I do. But can you blame me? For holding on to what I understand? I don’t know what lies under Jaskier but it has desires for things that maybe it doesn’t deserve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “I don’t blame you for what they made of you. The White Wolf is not a monster, it’s just a wounded beast…” Jaskier rests his hand on the broad chest and feels the beating underneath his palm. “...with the heart of an honourable man. It’s a heavy heart, I know. Believe me, I know. I see it, I see you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He wants to say that what started off as an act of mercy to a stranger, perhaps fueled by curiosity too, quickly turned into something else. The desire to claim he’s neither to blame is nearly overwhelming. It’s always been like that. One day, there’s nothing, and then, there’s a muse, a dream he must chase. Usually, it slips between his fingers but now, it’s right there between them, solid and beating and alive.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier wants to say so many things but he has a feeling, those things go unsaid. Instead, he listens to Geralt, whose eyes have been closed for a while now and whose voice sounds groggy when he speaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “I’ve led a life on the edge between evils, Jaskier. It can’t be undone. But through you, I find the will to make things right. In your presence, my heart, monster or man, knows no shame.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier feels it when his tired body can't fight it anymore. There’s a tremble, a full-body shudder, and then he comes undone. The built-up distress of countless restless nights crashes fiercely against the overwhelming fever that takes him and there where they clash, a tear drips down and flows into the blankets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “Geralt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          But the Witcher is asleep in front of him. His face is for once unexpressive not by restrain but by peacefulness and a feeling of quenched joy washes over Jaskier. His trembling hand, shaking to the beat of his heart, caresses that stubble and a shy finger grazes the thin lips and then the scar that crosses down the left eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier thinks of the scar that there must be known in the inner face of his thigh and how deep the arrow had gotten. He saved Geralt that night, but in many ways, he also saved himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He slowly and gently slips away from the grasp of those large hands and leaves behind the cocoon in an instinctual search for fresh air, and maybe for the privacy needed to process what has just happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          As he closes the door behind, another man meets his eye. With gray hair brushed back, sparsely browed, and the gaze of a predator, another Witcher leans against the column.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “Vesemir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier rubs away a stray tear and clears his throat, hoarse from the whispering. He stands with his shoulders squared under the analytical gaze and wonders what could have he done to earn that glare. It’s nearly more than he can take and he rides the wave of uncertainty that is bout to crash upon some drastic reaction as soon as Vesemir makes it clear why he’s out there, waiting like a Reaper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “A wolf bares his throat, uncertain if any more scars can fit among its fur.” the Witcher says as he stands up straight and Jaskier frowns his brows at the harsh tone, turns his lips into a tight line and holds the reins of his racing heart. “I’ve seen that boy grow. I was entrusted with his care. Do you understand what I mean, young man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier chuckles dryly, nearly a huff of disdain before he can think any better of it. And when he does, he only feels like going on. He lets the wave crash and it turns into anger he doesn’t bother to contain. Not after what he’s heard and learnt and seen. He can’t turn back time and maybe Geralt’s right, and there’s no justice in this world, but at the very least he can stand up for what he believes in. He takes a step forth and looks Vesemir dead in the eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “I understand that you failed. I understand that every winter he comes back to you and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span>... because you know where to look at, you all have the same scars,” he speaks with confidence and rather harshly because there’s no need to sugar coat this, or even a way to. “You see the pain he can’t shake off because in this hell of a place you call </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and gods forbid that I agree with Lambert, you watched as others like you broke boys apart to such tiny pieces that they don’t recognise themselves. You say you were entrusted with his care, I say I </span>
  <em>
    <span>chose </span>
  </em>
  <span>to care. And I’d choose it again, and again. Now if that means my name’s on your blade then when I die, I’ll know you never deserved to have him in your hands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He walks past Vesemir with a firm step, not quite angered at the man but at the shamelessness in which everyone in Kaer Morhen seems to be grown enough to think they know better but nobody makes a move to </span>
  <em>
    <span>make </span>
  </em>
  <span>things better. He’s done. He’s tired, tired of so many things but for starters, he’s tired at waiting idly as Geralt runs around in circles like a caged animal in his own mind. He’s tired a good man can’t be free from the past even in his own home, with his own family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          He stops in his tracks with one hand on the railing and looking down the stairs, ready for whatever may come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          “You will always be welcomed to this hell of a place and this that you do for him, I can’t repay.” Vesemir’s voice echoes faintly between the high ceiling and the red tiles and Jaskier holds a breath because this is not what he expected. He won’t turn away. He’s not ashamed of his tears, he simply doesn’t think Vesemir would understand.  “But I’ll try. When spring comes, it’s not your name that will be on my blade, but the name of those that keep Essi Daven, your family, shackled and broken. I am tired of good hearts breaking apart to make the pieces of man-like monster’s crown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>          Jaskier weeps; it’s tiny, inaudible and sharp, but he’s sure Vesemir hears his resolve crumble. He hopes his fatigue doesn’t reach his voice, because all of it, good and bad, it’s too much to handle at once.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He bites his own lips and grips the railing tight until his knuckles go white. Wherever Little Eye is now, however she is, she’s now one step closer to being home and Jaskier cries tears of hope, of despair, he cries just because he’s tired, because he’s human.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It will be an honour to travel by your side.</span>
</p><p>Vesemir lets him loose easily, he just walks away towards the balcony and Jaskier trembles once, nearly shakes in place, and then rushes down the steps as fast as he can and tears distort his vision. </p><p>
  <span>          When he comes out to the snow and the fresh air, he keeps running until he’s someplace where the rubble and the ruins shield him and lets himself feel the cold that frees his mind and breathes new strength into him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>          His tears wet his smile. Hope is a fragile thing but love builds bonds that nothing can possibly shatter. Jaskier counts himself lucky that he can have both. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Is this absolutely self-indulgent? Yes, yes, it is. Did I make my own version of Geralt falling asleep with Yennefer? Absolutely. Did it make me happy to write this? Well fuck yeah. There's smut and romance I want to write and I'm done waiting. If that's a sin, hell's throne is mine. </p><p>Thank you to everybody who leaves a comment and reads and I just love you all and hope you're happy and safe. Good night!</p><p>ps. I've decided it's easier for me to write in present in this foreign language, so I'll be editing the chapters slowly (which I have to do anyway because there's a ton of typos).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Wolf and the Lamb, and an eagerness to hunt.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>      Jaskier walks around the kitchen, nearly floating on his feet with the exultation. The great news had imbued him with renewed energies and the eventual arrival of spring sounds more so now an unavoidable triumph than a dreadful death sentence. </p><p>          Not a soul had responded to his cheers of joy out there in the front yard which could only mean no Witchers had been nearby, a notion that he had grown certain of as a couple of hours had passed by and he had yet to see somebody. </p><p>           A unique bliss had taken root on his spirit and making the most out of it Jaskier used his afternoon to rid the kitchen of that camouflaged disorder that had ruled over it since probably ever. </p><p>            In such a mission was he enrolled as he gave a good scrubbing to every bowl, mug and spoon, then sharpened the knives and put to use the drawers so as to keep everything organised.  Whistling some of his last compositions, he went through the stored foods to see what was due to be eaten soon and neatly put everything in a logical order, not before cleaning that where they were kept.  </p><p>             Then he sat at the table with the tarp in hand, which he now saw to be old sailcloth, to sew shut its many holes and keep undesired rodents away. That's what was keeping him busy - that and thoughts of Geralt and what he had said, which made him giddy and kept him grinning - when the door was slammed closed and in came Lambert.</p><p>              “Well, someone’s happy,” he says, then tilts his chin upwards in a sharp move which Jaskier had learnt to interpret as a playful provocation. “What? Figured out how to sing about something other than bullshit?</p><p>             Jaskier runs the needle through the fabric, careful not to prick his thumb, and his smile doesn't falter for a moment. Geralt’s words still echo in his mind and he’s sure they will for days so when Lambert walks past him, frowns at the order and then threatens to destroy it in his search for a mug, he answers in a crooning manner. </p><p>              “Oh, no, Lambert. Not today. Your profound allergy to kindness is futile in the face of my joy.”</p><p>              “Happy <em> and </em>wordy. Had I known, I’d taken another path,” he grunts, but he sits at the table by Jaskier’s side and pours himself another drink. Whatever he had been doing, he certainly had broken a sweat and had not deterred him from his love of alcohol.</p><p>              “Oh, really? Would you have flown in through a window, perhaps?” Jaskier tests him, raising his brows and as his hands are busy, he nods to the narrow elongated slits on the stone walls.</p><p>              “If it means avoiding you.” </p><p>            Jaskier chuckles at that and shakes his head with his eyes fixed on the rough cloth he’s masterfully fixing. The rhythm of the sewing calms him down somewhat but there’s no easing the subtle pain from smiling for so long, which is a discomfort he had missed and very much welcomed back into his life. </p><p>            In his twenty-something years, Jaskier had rarely felt at home. This wasn't to say he hadn't been happy for a man as taken by the world's beauty as he couldn't dwell too long in his own loneliness before the simple abnormality of facing it scared him back into stranger's hands, stranger's beds - but the thing about strangers was that they remained so and he, Jaskier, remained on the move. </p><p>            In that, he was very much like Geralt. His house hadn't ever been a home regardless of his mother's efforts. It wasn't meant for him to sit down and write about anything other than tales; taxes simply didn’t hold that magnificence to them. </p><p>            Oxenfurt, in all its glory and fame, couldn't take all he had to offer; its people shared a passion with Jaskier but in the ruffling of capes, skirts and quills he found as much fun as he found no purpose. It just wouldn't do to linger and thus to the path he had gone in search of something he could one-day call home. Hands in which to rest his weary heart; a chance, perhaps, to return the favour. </p><p>              There was still a tingle in his fingertips and across his palms where the ghost of Geralt's touch spread like wildfire and made him squirm at times. It could also be, however, that those very same mutated eyes that stared at him from the side aided in his nervousness.</p><p>             “Do not feign disinterest, I can feel you staring.” </p><p>             “I don’t. I just figured you’d be sleeping.”</p><p>             “I’m tired, that much is true.” Jaskier agrees because there is still fatigue to his body but he doesn’t truly feel it.  “But you, my good sir, could have just passed by.”</p><p>             “And miss the chance of pissing you off? Don’t think so.” Lambert smiles in that lopsided manner that takes years away from the wrinkles of his eyes and his receding hairline. Jaskier smiles back at him because Lambert is a riddle that he very much enjoys. “Eskel has been unflappable lately, it’s getting on my nerves.”</p><p>            “Oh, of course.” Jaskier chuckles, rolling his eyes and dropping the needle in search of a new hole with his fast and long fingers. “Gods guard you against learning a proper way of dealing with that years-old anger in a healthy manner.”</p><p>             Those are words that any other man would not get away with, he’s sure, but Lambert only grunts and looks away with a scowl, taking another gulp of his drink before raising his broad shoulders. </p><p>             “I’ve dealt with it plenty well my way, I’d say.”</p><p>             There’s spite in the way he says it like he’s pissed Jaskier calls him out so easily. It seems to be a Witcher thing, that inability to face Jaskier’s audacity at first and how, regardless of lacking the courage to raise a sword, he makes up for that with his spirit. If nothing, Jaskier is sure it brings him and Lambert closer; he’s learnt to tell that besides the spite there’s a jesting tone, a challenge he willingly raises to.</p><p>               “Distorted perception of reality is not an answer, Lambert; it’s another problem.”               </p><p>               Lambert snorts harshly through his nose and doesn’t make an effort to dilute that bad temper that comes so easily to him. Still, he doesn’t walk away as he does every time that he finds Jaskier’s spiritedness more annoying than entertaining. Instead, he just lays his head on his arms, resting on the table, and spats; </p><p>               “If you want to play therapist go get Geralt, but let me be.”</p><p>               The words bring Jaskier back to that which he can’t quite put a finger on but makes him smile wider again and softens his features into a yearning glance to that new hole his sewing shut.</p><p>               He fears if he thinks too hard about his source of joy Lambert may somehow read his mind, albeit now he knows that's not the kind of magic Witchers have. It's not under his control so he lets his eyes see past the brownish, dirty span of cloth he pierces and onto that which he can't truly see but might as well be right there with how clearly he remembers.</p><p>                Jaskier had seen Geralt smile before. More often than not, a twisted feral kind meant to come off as politely threatening to smug lords and arrogant guards. Geralt also sported a thin, sharp one, not overly different, when he made a particularly clever, spiteful remark to some poor soul who inadvertently pissed him off. </p><p>                 What Jaskier saw now, if only by the summoning of the recent memory, was soft like roses' petals. He, unabashedly smitten with all that conveyed love, had tiny scars in his fingerpads that didn't let him forget the thorns that laid under, but still, Jaskier found it increased its worth. </p><p>                 And that was the right word; worth. All he had ever hoped for, fought for -with his incessant chatter and pigheadedness- had been worth it. </p><p>              He recalls his mother saying that he'd know true love the moment someone's smile forced another onto his lips but he doesn't think much of it. In a similar fashion as Geralt disregards his thoughts when drunk, so does Jaskier when overjoyed since in such a state any idea seems a good one to him. </p><p>              Was this what home felt like? He couldn’t know and was uncertain of whether that was what kept him on his feet, that lurking terror that this may be it. This may be his chance, couldn’t it? </p><p>             He shakes his head. Geralt is well, <em> Geralt. How would that even work? </em> He laughs in his own head, claims it a silly though even as his heart beats in his throat and he licks his lips to calm the turmoil in his belly before he vanishes the thought. To do so, he turns his attention back to the Witcher which is with him now and whose squinted eyes seem to be trying to delude what’s going on in Jaskier’s mind. </p><p>            “So why are you here? Don’t look drunk anymore.”</p><p>            “‘Course not, I’m a Witcher.” Lambert says and he’s still looking at Jaskier, even when Jaskier is no longer looking at him. </p><p>            The Witcher glares at the tart which he seems to be competing against for attention now. Not that he wants it, he tells himself, it’s simply strange not to have Jaskier trying to get him to be friendly. It takes away from the fun of being around him.</p><p>              So he looks at the bard again and there it is, that daydreaming face.</p><p>              There’s something about the bard that pisses him off, mostly because it draws him in against his will, and it’s that shine in his bright blue eyes. <em> It’s not fair</em>, thinks the Witcher, <em> to disarm a man with just a glance.</em></p><p>               It’s not fair to Lambert simply because it’s not a fight he can ever win. Is probably not even one he stood on guard for since he didn’t see it coming. It burns to be defeated in a war he didn’t know to have taken part of but gladly, he’s a sore loser, so he can feign to hate Jaskier for a while more. There are other ways he can come up with to deal with that uneasiness that lashes within him and makes him evermore moody but there is no way in which he can see them happening. Not with how he is, not with how Jaskier is.                </p><p>              Doesn’t matter. When spring comes, they’ll never see one another again and in doing so, those urges that keep him glancing at the bard from time to time will die. Meanwhile, he figures he can be a bit nice if only so Eskel will stop pestering about his manners. As far as he’s concerned, Jaskier manages pretty well against him and in all honesty, it only makes him that bit more attractive, which are the kind of thoughts he tries to stay away from. </p><p>               “Here to play Gwent with Eskel, see if this shithole finally falls down on our heads and ends this boredom. Or this hangover.”</p><p>               “Hmmm” Jaskier hums.                </p><p>                He’s too focused checking he’s left no hole unattended so he doesn’t see when Lambert frowns and looks away with a grunt. With his mind elsewhere, -somewhere around the first floor, around the library- those unmatched skills of his that allow him to see past the masquerade that some people make out of their lives aren’t put to use. </p><p>               Jaskier brushes one palm against another quickly, cleaning them of the dust the tart had collected and that had passed onto his hands, and smiles to his finished work. Without a word, he gets off the bench. In the few minutes that they share with unusual silence, Jaskier manages to cover the stored food back again and properly tie the tart to every hook. </p><p>                When he turns around, Lambert is watching him again out of the corner of his eye. It remains Jaskier of a wary stray dog that yearns to come closer to an offered hand but has known far too many deceiving, mean ones to take such a leap of faith gratuitously. He chooses not to chuckle to that comparison since he’s aware Lambert is a wolf, not a lap dog, and he could very well end up with his hand metaphorically bitten off. </p><p>                “Do you really not want to know?”, Jaskier asks.               </p><p>                After all, it had been Lambert who had asked why he was so happy. Jaskier sits by his side and props his cheek against a closed fist with his body turned to face the Witcher in such a way that he has to bend his left leg and put it on the bench so it’s more comfortable to sit. There’s no more obvious way to make it known he wants to start a conversation and he does it so so that Lambert can see it and leave if he wants to. He doesn’t. </p><p>               “Does it matter? You never shut up. You’ll end up telling me anyway.”</p><p>               “That’s fair,” Jaskier concedes, smiling to the way Lambert and his shrug, his leery gaze and his lips, a tight line of disinterest, all turn to him. </p><p>               “Not a compliment.”</p><p>                Jaskier doesn’t bother reacting to such a simple provocation since there’s greater fun in watching Lambert’s glare be in vain. It’s so easy, it’s nearly underrated how much it makes him want to laugh. Just a simple smile and returning his gaze in a gleeful manner are enough to make the Witcher frown, arch a brow as if questioning what’s so funny, then grunt and turn his face away again. As easy a victory as they come. </p><p>               Jaskier is not, however, a man to abuse his power, so even as he would rightfully deserve to avenge the relentless mocking Lambert puts him under by forcing the Witcher to claw at an unmoving, unbreakable wall of utter joy, he would rather share his good news with someone else. Or those he dares to, anyway.</p><p>               “It’s about Vesemir, among other things.” </p><p>               “The old man making someone happy?” Lambert lets out a short gruff laugh, loaded with disbelief. “Colour me fucking surprised.”</p><p>                “He’s coming with Geralt and me to rescue Little Eye.” Jaskier’s words are filled to the brim with enthusiasm and yet all he gets is a deadpan look and Lambert spats out;</p><p>                “Bullshit.” </p><p>                Jaskier frowns and his smile turns into a tight line, he raises his head from his fist and crosses his arms across his chest defensively but Lambert is still looking at him like he’s lost his head, with a semblance of utter impassiveness slowly but surely fading into outraged shock.</p><p>                “I’m telling the truth!”</p><p>                “The fuck you are.” Lambert barks right back and he sits straight and rudely raises his shoulders as he gestures accusingly at Jaskier.  “Why would anyone listen to that nonsense?” </p><p>                 His words and the way he’s implying Jaskier’s rescue mission is little more than a crap of bullshit manage to shred to pieces the fussy calmness that had taken over Jaskier and leaves him angered in the way only someone who had been ecstatic a minute prior can be.</p><p>                 “I find offence in that. I’d <em> never </em>juggle with Essi’s wellbeing.” He dares to point a finger out to that broad chest and digs it into the hardened muscle there, even if he can’t push back Lambert.  “Besides, who are you to judge? You left before I even finished speaking.”</p><p>                “‘Cause you were talking rubbish.” Lambert swats away his hand without missing a beat and as their argument grows in loudness, they come closer to one another in the bench they sit. It’s not in either of their minds to start an actual brawl but their strong character simply forces them to put up a fight in every way possible. “It’s a suicide mission!”</p><p>               “It’s not! I have a plan, which you would have heard if you hadn’t stormed off before I even finished speaking.” Jaskier nearly spits his words to Lambert’s face and slams a hand on the table as he rises to tower above the man and scowl down at him.             </p><p>                He lets loose that sudden wave of frustration that has overtaken him which is only so drastic because of the way it contrasts with how he had felt before and allowed his face to show how distasteful he finds Lambert’s remarks to be.                </p><p>              Jaskier fails to see the way Lambert’s pupils dilate as they look up and how he looks more so ready to devour him than punch him. Of course, that is only because the bard doesn’t know that what drives Lambert up the wall the most about him is that fiery beast that rests under pomposity, love songs and fancy clothing. </p><p>               Oh, how hungry he is to see it even if he hates why it’s come out. He knows, Lambert knows, that he’s being a dick. He didn’t mean to but he hardly ever does. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he sees the redness that those harsh breaths of rage bring to Jaskier’s face and waits for the clever remark that’s bound to come. His hands itch with the desire to rise up to the challenge. He wants to bring Jaskier down but most of all, he’s eager to find he can’t. </p><p>                “Honestly! What a <em> lovely </em>tendency you Wolves have to leave a man with half his mind unspoken.”</p><p>            Lambert can’t help it -doesn’t even want to- when his lips twist into a feral grin and his eyes reveal the true nature of his thoughts. It doesn’t matter because Jaskier doesn’t know him well enough to tell, he only sees a gesture he believes to be mocking.   </p><p>           The Witcher stands up slowly and he’s only ever so slightly taller than Jaskier but he’s much broader and, by default, by his very nature, much scarier, all which seem to fly over the bard’s head as he only tilts his chin up slightly and waits for Lambert to take his words back, even if he knows he won’t. Jaskier glares at him with contained rage which is quickly diluting simply because he’s too tired for it and because he knows better than to try and fight Lambert for real. </p><p>            “Tch. Don’t go and blame it on me. Try speaking plainer and maybe you’ll have better luck, or did some sorceress curse you to be that gaudy?”</p><p><em>             “Gaudy? </em>” His pretty pink lips slip open until he’s gaping, now utterly insulted for a totally different reason, with the previous one obliterated out of his mind. </p><p>            He blinks repeatedly and raises a finger as if he’s ready to say something but he’s just been thrown off balance. Lambert chuckles a dry, mocking laugh and shrugs again, also raising his chin to look down at him. He can’t help it. </p><p>            There’s something about arguing, about that adrenaline that fuels him, that simply gets him moving, ready for anything and everything, and especially eager for more, for a little something he’s never had and that he will not simply hand over. <em>Control.</em></p><p>           Most of all, his eyes darkened with the unjustified certainty that Jaskier could and would bring him down if given the right scenario, the right type of fight.          </p><p>               “I mean, that’s a curse I’d lift for free. You’re gon’ use up all words one day.”</p><p>              The words get out of his mouth with the primal desire to push Jaskier over the edge before he can think any better. He should have known better than to expect Jaskier to go rabid. Instead, he cools down so drastically is visible in the way his face turns into a deceitfully pleasant nice smile, yet his eyes are sharp like stalactites and when he speaks he does so with perfect control and his rage is honed to be both lethal and poised. </p><p>              “Oh but Lambert, I’d never want that. I still hold onto the hope that one day you’ll pick up a book and expand your lexicon further than that of a rotten onion.”</p><p>              Everything in moderation, Lamber had heard Vesemir said. <em> But sometimes you have to give in to temptation, </em>he thinks. His lips let past a growl and the hunger that Jaskier confuses for anger against him and his apparently foolish hopes only grows deeper as those bright blue eyes shine fiercely, frustrated that his joy has been shattered.          </p><p>             The fact that Jaskier knows Lambert won’t hurt him makes Lambert want to force him to doubt that truth so he lets his fangs show and inches closer until their faces are inches apart. He’s never known a man who didn’t tremble to the sight of an angered Witcher and yet, Jaskier only arches a brow that furthers that sharp anger his tight smile displays. </p><p>               “Been a long time since that could scare me, Lambert.” Jaskier whispers and the air that leaves with his words brushes against Lambert’s lips, makes him lick them again. </p><p>               “Wouldn't say that's the reaction I'd like to see.” </p><p>              On the contrary, he must accept it now in the face of the truth or else risk being a coward like Geralt, which he’d rather die than accept. His body is desirous to know if that simple man can bring him down and Lambert is nothing if not driven by whatever his soul desires. No, he’s never been one to keep his head cold. </p><p>                “Lambert! What the hell? Step off.” </p><p>                The bubble they were in bursts and how shameful truly that neither of them had heard Eskel approach until his hands are on their chests pulling them apart until they fall back on the bench. The older Witcher frowns and glances between them. He’s seen their constant brawling drive either of them out of the room but never before had he thought it could lead them to fight, which is the impression he gets, much like Jaskier himself.    </p><p>               When Lambert makes hard contact with the bench due to the forceful shove, some air leaves his lungs and turns into a new grunt. It sounds like anger but actually, it’s lust. His predatory eyes never turn from that reddened faces that looks back at him as if out of a trance, confused. </p><p>              “Can’t leave you two alone for a second, can I?” Eskel tries to joke to lighten the tension which he can’t quite understand. It works. Lambert turns his gaze away and pours himself another cup of White Gull. “This is why we never have guests.”</p><p>              “I’d say it has to do more with being in the middle of nowhere but sure, blame it on the honest guy.” </p><p>              “You’re more a dick than honest. You know what? I don’t even want to know why you were at each other’s throats again. This shit is getting old.”  Eskel drops four decks of cards kept together by a thin knotted lace. “Are you playing, Jaskier? Jaskier? Hello?”</p><p>              Those are the words that finally bring him back to reality. His ears once again hear the crackling flames, the howling wind. He sees Eskel’s concerned eyes and how he’s ready to form his lips around the words that will demand to know what has happened -perhaps stirrup a fight of his own against Lambert, to force him to apologize to whatever he’s said. </p><p>             Suddendly, Jaskier doesn’t think he knows himself what it is exactly that has happened. He takes a look at Lambert but he can’t see his face, only how he greedily drinks every last drop of booze. His own throat is parched so he clears it and reaches for the pitcher to serve himself a matching cup he also gulps down.</p><p>            “Gwent, right?” his voice comes out unshaken and he’s neither angered nor afraid, he’s simply puzzled.</p><p>            He rolls his shoulders to shake off that feeling that shivers down his spine. Eskel rubs him in the back shortly, more so an abort at an attempted gesture of comfort, unsure if that’s the right thing to do.</p><p>            “What else?”, he says, and he slides over the table smoothly to sit down at the other side opposite of his soon-to-be adversaries. "There’s a spare deck."        </p><p>             Eskel unties the knot and pushes Lambert’s deck his way, takes his own and presumably gives Jaskier the one that’s not Geralt’s. Jaskier sits straight and shuffles through them to see what he's working with. That feeling of disorientation leaves him as quickly as it had gotten to him and he smiles confidently to Eskel so that the last worries that remain on those golden orbs vanish.        </p><p>             He wouldn’t want to cause trouble for Lambert; it’s not like he’s said something much worse than he usually would. Most importantly, Jaskier is rather proud that he can manage that asshole even in his worst days. As if he is also willing to go on with normalcy, Lambert nonchalantly turns his head to speak to Jaskier and it is, once more, the inexpressive face of a Witcher. </p><p>            “Tried to teach Vesemir to play but it seems he used all the brains with those books.”</p><p>             Jaskier watches as Lambert and Eskel simultaneously drop their pouches on the table and with their eyes, they check the amount the other carries which with only two weeks into gambling is still a lot - anyway, the coin mostly travels back and forth between the Witchers with every game, since there’s nowhere to spend it.  </p><p>            “I’d love to play but I don’t have a crown left, though.”</p><p>            “Tough luck.” spats Lambert and swiftly darts out his hand to take back Jaskier’s deck, which he succeeds in doing. The bard blinks twice to his now empty hands before he lets out a weak sound of protest, but Eskel beats him to it.  </p><p>            “Lambert.”</p><p>            “What? What do you wanna bet? A piece of cheese?”</p><p>            The Witchers exchange a long look as if they’re telling each other something Jaskier obviously can’t listen. To be honest, he doesn’t know them well enough yet to interpret the minute changes in their faces as if they were Geralt. For a split second, he sees Eskel’s eyes open in realization before his lips twist into a gesture of exasperation that quickly fades. </p><p>            “Knowledge.”, Eskel answers, and it is as if those seconds never happened. Jaskier takes another sip of his water and makes an effort to ground himself in the present which seems to be dancing around him, keeping him trapped between Vesemir’s promise, Geralt’s confession and Lambert’s glower. </p><p>            “Oh, sure.” scoffs the youngest Witcher, both decks still in hand. “Let’s turn fun into a lesson. Did that horse of surprise of yours kick you in the head?”</p><p>            “Horse of surprise?” asks Jaskier as his curiosity is suddenly picked and, of course, it ought to be that which let him shake everything else off his mind. He hadn’t heard of such a thing before and waits for Eskel to elaborate.</p><p>            “Scorpion. I saved a knight in 1272, got paid with the law of surprise. A fine purebred Kaedweni warhorse. See, that’s what I’m talking about. Getting to know each other, getting closer. What’s to lose?”</p><p>           “Sounds fun.” Jaskier agrees with a bright smile and inches closer to Lambert, snatches the deck back from his lax fingers, which tells him the man didn’t actually intend to not-so-subtly kick him out of the kitchen, or he wouldn’t have let him get the deck back. “I’m in.”</p><p>           “‘Course you are. Eager to get anything for your songs, aren’t you?” </p><p>           Jaskier pompously goes through his cards again and fakes disdain in an exaggerated manner, looking Lambert over the edge of the cardboard. </p><p>           “It’s called documenting, my dear. With a poetic license, of course.” </p><p>            The remnants of that strange tension sway between those present and are finally murdered by Lambert’s noncommittal huff of air. Eskel visually relaxes on his place at the other side of the table as if he had been ready to intervene at any moment. Jaskier gives Lambert a broad smile that comes naturally to him when the promise of gossip peeks in the horizon. </p><p>             “Whatever. You start, Eskel.”</p><p>             Sooner rather than later, the cards are flying across the table. Each of them plays in an undoubtedly different way and this turns the game into equal parts fast-paced and hilarious. Not a second goes by where someone doesn't complain about the other's action, either because it implies defeat or because, in their unasked opinion, it is blatantly stupid.</p><p>             They play best of five. Jaskier, who has never been very good at maintaining appearances, decides that it is better to exaggerate any reaction and, if necessary, pretend another one, taking advantage of his acting abilities. Thus, he is sure that the Witchers cannot know when he speaks the truth and when it is a bluff. Lambert never stops telling him to shut it, but all is playful and easy-going now. </p><p>              Eskel is more practical and his approach to cards is just as he is, somewhat daring but mainly logical, at times predictable, and he always has an ace up his sleeve. His ace can do little when in the last round Lambert absolutely riddles any strategy that the other Witcher could have prepared and, finally, Jaskier passes the turn and Eskel is the loser.</p><p>            There is a roar of laughter coming from Lambert, who is a bad loser but an even worse winner. Jaskier, a little sorry to see the beating that poor Eskel has received, gives him a merciful smile.</p><p>             “Well, that was fast.” Eskel laughs at the face of his own defeat and claps once, as acceptance of his fate. He takes the card that failed him between his fingers and twirls it before pointing at Jaskier with it and with a sided smile too, just the right side of provoking. “A clever little rascal you are, Jaskier, could’ve deceived me with that smile.”</p><p>            “Don’t try to feign surprise to keep your dignity.” Lambert taunts him and for once he’s sporting a broad, straightforward smile. “You lose more often than Geralt grunts.” </p><p>            “Should be glad I didn’t put money on the line, then. So, what does our guest want to know?”</p><p>            Jaskier doesn’t miss a beat. He’s spent a lifetime asking the right questions to get stories that let imagination run wild and feed the heart with tales of wonder. There’s one thing every living sentient being years for, and that’s what he asks about.</p><p>            “What’s the happiest moment in your life?</p><p>            “Straight for the throat,” says Lambert. “Why the hell did you have that ready?”</p><p>            “All you Witchers talk about is monster hunting and that is already on the books I’ve read. Surely is not that shocking to want to get to know other people.”</p><p>             “That’s fair.” agrees Eskel, regrouping the cards and shuffling them. He seems rather skilled at it, with precise elegant moves that make the cards move around hypnotizingly. “After all, by Lambert’s very own words this morning, you now deserve to be in the family.”</p><p>            “Still alive and kicking, that’s for sure. So answer the damn question, I want to play, not talk.”</p><p>            Eskel huffs, amused. Someday, he tells himself, he will get used to Lambert's brusqueness, but not today. He ponders the question but nothing comes to mind. It is not easy for a Witcher to collect moments of happiness in the kind of life they lead and thus, he ends up somewhat frustrated, looking for some answer in Jaskier's expressive eyes. It jumps to him out of the blue. </p><p>           He now realizes why he’s been so smitten by Jaskier’s brightness and that colour that matches the skies. Of course, it won’t be him who takes credit away from the bad’s charm but it does put things in perspective. </p><p>            “One moment comes to mind. Not sure if the happiest, but still.” he shrugs and considers for a second whether he wants to speak of it or not. All doubt vanishes as he lifts his gaze from the cards and onto Jaskier again. “It’s strange to speak of it but as I told you, Jaskier, you remind me of simpler times.”</p><p>             “Could always change the question.”</p><p>             “No, don’t fret about it. I guess it’s just more... bittersweet than happy, not that I think about it too often either. It’s a memory of my mother, the only memory of hers I have.” </p><p>             Eskel pointedly ignores the way Lambert goes from terribly bored to snapping his head up to stare in shock at the other Witcher. Quickly, shock melts into confusion and then merely attention. </p><p>             “I grew near the Blue Mountains and she used to sing this hiking song when we took the sheep for a walk. It goes like this,” he clears his throat and starts crooning, irremediably a soft smile forms in his lips “Dear hen, she cackled, she cackled on the fence…”</p><p>             “Dear hen, she cackled, and she ain’t cackled since.” Jaskier finishes and the tenderness that faintly shows in Eskel’s face makes him smile in kind. “A classic, indeed. It’s quite tragic that’s all you can remember. At least, it sounds like you came from a nice home.”</p><p>              Eskel taps his fingers against his deck and seems to lose himself in his thoughts for a few moments in which Jaskier waits patiently and that are enough for Lambert to lose interest again.</p><p>              “Hmm. There was an old fence, painted yellow. Can’t recall my father but I know my mother loved him. She used to sing that song all the time as we wandered through the pasturages and the hills under a bright blue sky and the hot stale air of the summer. There was a dog. I remember his fur was soft and kept me warm in winter, in bed. I was happy. I certainly was.”</p><p>               Jaskier, with his vivid imagination, cannot help but picture that flicker into the past, as vivid as it is short. His chest fills with intoxicating warmth and a longing to have a similar memory, even though he knows luck is on his side. There is something indelibly tragic about having a single happy memory, regardless of how heartwarming, and Jaskier would not want to be in his place. He quickly decides that it is better not to speak of times so past that they surely lead Eskel to remember nightmares that followed, most likely similar to those of Geralt.</p><p>               “That’s so lovely, Eskel. You should write it down so you never forget.”</p><p>               “Don’t have a way with words like other’s do but as long as you are around, I know I won’t forget it.” Eskel answers with honesty and Jaskier nods, feeling privileged. He won’t turn that story into a song, which sounds barren and immoral, he’ll cherish it instead. </p><p>                He abruptly recalls his first impression of Eskel and how the terrible scars across his flame-lit face made him look more monster than man. The beauty that he once possessed remains in the pronounced chin, the almond-shaped eyes and the marked cupid arch of his lips, but before that, Jaskier finds that what makes Eskel particularly charming is really his attitude. It is not the first time that he thinks about it since he’s met him but seeing the sincerity of his words has reminded him.</p><p>              Stoicism is part of Eskel, because first and foremost he is a Witcher, and yet Jaskier is certain that within his simplicity, tenacity and practicality there are still traces of what was once a child who sang while walking through the meadow. There is a certain humanity that is unique to Eskel. It’s alluring and nearly forbidden, coming from a man like him, and Jaskier applauds his effort to stay true to his heart, regardless of how broken or unintelligible it may be.</p><p>             “Hah.” Lambert lets out something that falls closer to an insult than a laugh and, of course, directs it to Jaskier. “He truly got you in his net, huh? </p><p>              Jaskier frowns and rolls his eyes, but the words come out on his own because he has gotten used to replying to that cynical Witcher who has no excuse for being so little empathetic. To be honest, he finds it entertaining, even though it condemns him to an endless loop of retorts and taunts. Right now though, with a tired body and mind, he has little patience left for Lambert and maybe that’s okay - is not like the man ever shows mercy. </p><p>                “Do you suffer from a pathological need to shred anything nice or is it an active choice?”</p><p>               “Hard to tell. Mom always said I was different.”</p><p>             Eskel laughs openly, throwing his head back which exposes his long neck and the ending tips of his scars right under his jaw. Quickly, he adds his own opinion before Lambert says a thing more.</p><p>             “Nobody is that big of a prick by chance.”</p><p>            That makes the young Witcher's attention, which never leads to anything good, make Eskel his new target. He offers that man who knows him so well a look that lets him know his intentions and he delights in the way his jaw tightens. Once again, Jaskier is incapable of reading their faces, that secret conversation they’re having on the side.</p><p>            “Because you’re a nice lad who wouldn’t kill a fly, ain’t you?” Lambert playfully smacks with his hand Jaskier’s arm to catch his attention and then with that very hand, he points at Eskel. “Watch and learn, pretty boy. Eskel, brother, dear brother…”</p><p>             “Just strike me, you bastard.”</p><p>             “As you wish. Here goes your knight-in-shining-armour mirage. What were your first naughty thoughts about? Go ahead, tell Jaskier over here. Let’s get to <em> know each other. </em>”</p><p>           Jaskier crosses his arms and turns his body to face Lambert. The question makes him heat up, but Jaskier blames it on the imperative need of his body to respond to such a suggestion - and that is far from the responsibilities of his mind.</p><p>            “I am under the impression you think me some type of lady who’ll faint in the face of a little crudity and in all honesty, there’s enough with that. I can’t possibly see how this is a relevant question for bonding matters, but I can assure you, Eskel, that you won’t impress me.” </p><p>            Lambert lets out a laugh between challenge and disbelief, the kind of sound made by someone who already knows the truth and its consequences. Unfortunately for Jaskier, and in rigorous similarity to the bravado that Lambert so often displays, he does not ask the man to back down on his question.</p><p>            “You just wait until you hear it, then we’ll see if you still say that.” His accusatory finger becomes bolder as it points straight to Eskel’s unreadable face. “If you lie, I’ll out you with all manner of details, so don’t even think about it. I have that traumatic fact burnt into my imagination, time to pay for it.” </p><p>          Now it’s the time for Eskel to huff out a short puff of air that perfectly conveys his amusement. He rests his arms on the table and Jaskier can’t find an ounce of reluctance nor shame in the boldness of his smile. Briefly, he thinks back of his time in the priest’s school and the dreadful consequences that quickly derived from some young boy telling another something that always ran along the lines of “you don’t have the balls to do this.”</p><p>           “Really? Do you think I’d be ashamed of that? All kids are curious and we have greater sins in our list than that.” Without hesitation, he turns his piercing golden eyes to Jaskier and confesses with a shrug. “Geralt. If you must know, it was Geralt”</p><p>            “I beg your pardon?”</p><p>            “Exactly.” Lambert complains, although his disbelief stems from reasons very different from those of Jaskier who has been left in a quasi-catatonic state, unable to do anything other than stare at Eskel. “What kind of shitty answer is that? Can’t remember the colour of the skies now? Bet the bed was still warm, though, dog or not. </p><p>             “I won’t be niggardly with the details if that’s the will of the winners.” Eskel raises his hands in agreement so that Lambert may put back down the jug he brandishes like a weapon. </p><p>              He locks his gaze with Jaskier’s blue one and speaks to him as if there’s just nothing strange about it. Jaskier is brusquely reminded that Geralt had always had a rather blunt, honest approach to anything sexual too, so maybe he should have seen it coming. Still, just as Eskel starts speaking he can feel the heat rise again all the way from his chest to his cheeks and his throat is awful dry but to reach for the water would out him under Lambert’s judging. </p><p>             “There's just something about Geralt, isn't there? So tight-lipped, so practical, makes you wonder what kind of man he's under the sheets. </p><p>Used to visualise him defeating me in combat, down there at the hillside we lingered at after sword training. You can guess the kind of price the loser was bound to pay but oh, well, we did go hungry to sleep more often than not, so can you blame a man for wanting to get a fill of anything whatsoever? So it went down like this…”</p><p>        Jaskier gulps and is not sure he can hear the story without responding to it. Not with the way that golden gaze seems to be inviting him to imagine it and although Eskel's face is impassive, his deep and dry voice glides through the words with a naturalness that brings life to what he says and Jaskier, who is only a man, instinctively stretches the edge of his pants discreetly with a quick hand. </p><p>        “Don’t.” Lambert grunts, interrupting Eskel as he closes his eyes tight and growls, then he shakes his head. “Should’ve known you’d have the balls to do this! Shut up already.” </p><p>          Eskel is obviously relished to have gained that metaphorical arm wrestling against Lambert and is only the feathers short to look like a smug peacock. Jaskier can't fault him for that. The Witcher may say he doesn't have a way with words but his are the ones that the bard won't get rid of for many days -or most likely, many nights.</p><p>             “Suck it up, Lambert. You’re the one who asked.” With a sly smile, he loudly whispers to Jaskier “When we started learning the Signs, I set a curtain on fire one night.”</p><p>             “Well, a-” Jaskier tries to answer quickly so it comes off as natural but his voice does a yelp and strips him of his dignity right there and them which the Witchers don’t miss. “… a young man is bound to have a wild libido. Certainly not that big of a deal.” </p><p>            “On that note,” Lambert says deliberately slow, playing with the edge of his deck like a spider with a trapped fly. Jaskier has no doubt he’s the fly. “...and for the sake of bonding, of course, have you not?”</p><p>            “Have I not what?”</p><p>            “Jerked off to Geralt, obviously. So many adventures together… it must have crossed your mind.”</p><p>             He can't believe his own ears or how easily his very body betrays him. That subtle heat that had pooled at his cheeks turns into a wildfire as his eyes grow wide. Before he can stop himself, he thinks back of Geralt who must be naively sleeping upstairs, unaware of the way Jaskier's body is betraying them both and eagerly responds with a pleasant shiver to that glimpse, that tiniest flicker of imagination, that dares to picture him resting, undone and spent, on top of that scarred chest. His heart buckles. His breathing hitches. </p><p>           “What is wrong with you?” he spats, more so out of shock than shame. “No, I’ve not thought such things.”</p><p>             Eskel realizes when Lambert loses control again and the truth is that he has long ago put the pieces of the puzzle together. He sees it in the way the other Witcher stiffens and sticks out his chest. It's almost imperceptible, but to keep someone like Lambert at bay, one has to see things coming. The man watches Jaskier with the dedication that a hunter stalks his prey. Eskel listens as the rhythm of his heart, already slow in itself, further slows its pace.</p><p>             He doesn't judge him. Jaskier's cheekbones are already covered with his blush and thus the blue of his eyes stands out even more; bewilderment lies in them, but there's no fear nor hesitation. He knows that Lambert is captivated by the strength of character that Jaskier possesses, attracted by that natural ability with which he speaks and cajoles, and that ability that he has to get away with anything.</p><p>               Lambert can't get it out of his head. The impudence with which Jaskier navigates his life is convincingly captivating and leaves him with a dry mouth and the desire to know where the limit lies, where Jaskier is left speechless and without his shamelessness, where he surrenders and Lambert wins. He has a feeling such a limit doesn’t exist; he’s bound to lose. He wants to lose. His hands close into fists and he lets out a slow breath.</p><p>               His eyes are fixed on how Jaskier is bent on shuffling his cards and how nervousness is reflected in his exasperated tone. He’s complaining, but Lambert doesn’t hear, he just watches those lips move. Even so, as the Witcher glowers, Jaskier does not hide from the penetrating gaze nor does he seem worried about the way his body betrays him. </p><p>               Jaskier's heart beats in his chest, a runaway horse. His foot moves nervously against the tiles like a drum because of whatever his mind keeps glimpsing. Lambert needs to know what is making Jaskier’s skin bristle and the tiniest amount of sweat pool at the nape of his neck. The White Gull is not to blame, Lamberts’s always been hot-headed. </p><p>                “Truly? Have not noticed those arms, that chest? Ever think about those hands encircling your waist with how big they’re? Bet they could. And he’d do so, coming undone for his barker, that stoic man wrapped around your finger.”</p><p>                A shiver runs through his body and leaves goosebumps. His eyes widen like saucers and the cards crinkle between his taut hands. He swears he feels a ghostly hand brush his waist and his heart skips a beat. He knows the Witchers can hear it, can smell him.</p><p>               Cursed by the words that Lambert leaves free, his body tenses and he remains as a deer who hears a boot split a twig. In the palms of his hands, he can feel the burning touch of Geralt's own that never seem to grow cold, he feels the roughness of that beard that Geralt refuses to grow. Imagines the red, irritated skin of his own thighs in an impossible struggle to escape from its caress and he glimpses the white hair cascading over his navel, covering his shame as the Witcher advances with reverence and takes what was always his. </p><p>                With one arm resting across his smooth flat abdomen, deceptively calm but keeping him trapped there, with no escape and at the mercy of Geralt's brute force, he somehow knows that the White Wolf wouldn't say anything, he would just look up and those cat pupils turned into a bottomless pit would make Jaskier tremble, as he does now, sitting on the bench.</p><p>               “Eskel, please.” His words fall short of demand and turn into a plead, he feels agitated and his sweaty palms yearn to take apart the gambeson that traps him in a cocoon of fire, for he swears it’s hard to breathe.</p><p>              But the other Witcher just sits at the bench with his hands artfully playing with the cards with long deft fingers. Jaskier has seen this before when one wolf respects the fight between two others, idly enjoying the chaos from the sides. Much to Jaskier’s dismay, he feels much more rabbit than wolf.  Lambert, who has never known mercy and who feels overtaken by hunger and lust, who doesn’t miss the response of Jaskier’s body, meets the shocked eyes of Jaskier. </p><p>              “Nothing as divine as a proper fuck, I’d say. Not a man of words, he is not. But throughout? That he is, that bastard. That eye for detail he’s got wouldn’t miss what makes you squirm. He’s Geralt, after all, we both know he doesn’t lose.”</p><p>               And Jaskier has to fight, has to keep his head above the water. He clenches his teeth and the ferocity of his blush is only accentuated when he picks up what is left of his dignity and in an attempt to defend himself, he crosses his arms and responds to Lambert in what is almost a growl, not typical of him.</p><p>               “Seems to me like <em> you’re </em>the one infatuated with Geralt.”</p><p>               “Never said that fancy word, bard, but thanks for the confession anyway.”</p><p>                The tension twists and becomes a provocation again, a test a trial. That tug of war that Lambert and Jaskier have turned their relationship into is reborn and Eskel no longer has any doubt, there is a clear winner. </p><p>                “I admit to nothing but the obvious truth which is that you, Lambert, need to find a lady of the night to quench those needs. Who knows? Maybe she’ll knock some sense and manners into you.”</p><p>                Lambert is contained on his site like a countdown bomb. The desire hides well in his hungry gaze and he lets the rest of his pose show a very well-acted indifference but Eskel sees it, knows it, that Lambert has lost. He knows it as well as he knows that he’d never go down without a fight, so his next words don’t come off as a surprise to anyone but Jaskier.</p><p>            “Not interested. Got my eyes on someone else already.”</p><p>            If silence could snap, it would have. Realization downs on Jaskier and like a hurricane all comes back to him and leaves him short of breath again. It's just a second, a bat of the eyes, in which Lambert's lips turn into a feral grin as he sees the bard finally understand. The tables turn and now, he's victorious. </p><p>            Jaskier takes in such a big gulp of air, so suddenly and awkwardly, that his chest fills comically and it makes a sound when the air passes through his throat. He literally jumps off the bench as if it is on fire and the cards fall and fly a few meters away. His neck nearly snaps with how fast he turns to look at Eskel but the man’s face is of stone and there’s no mercy or logic to be found that can calm his racing mind. So what’s bound to happen, happens, and his mouth takes charge and he babbles and there’s a dire need to find an escape because he will not be devoured like a rabbit if he can help it.</p><p>             “Someone else you say? And who in the whole Continent would fall for such lack of decency, I wonder?” </p><p>              At a feverish pace and with graceful movements too exaggerated to come off as natural, he turns his back on them, as if that could hide his body's treason, and faces the part of the kitchen that merges with the dining room and has not yet been cleaned.     </p><p>            “And will you look at that? Who left their dirty clothes on here, may I know? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, you Witchers make horrible housekeepers. Can’t even respect my honest work, shame on you!”</p><p>            He stacks all the clothes he can, dirty and smelly, into his arms, until he almost overflows and can't see where he steps. He does not doubt it for a second because if he stays, he will have a heart attack, he does not want to think about it, he wants nothing more than to flee from there. The stairs, the safety of the distance, is his destination and he does not stop talking in every hurried step he takes because if he hears the slightest noise from the Witchers, his pantomime will fall to the ground.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Lonely lovebird in the mirror's shards, undeterred.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>          Lambert makes a move to reach for the bottle again but Eskel pushes it out of his reach with the back of his hand. Their eyes meet across the table as Lambert lowers his hand slowly.  </p><p>          “Can’t believe it,” he says, then huffs and leans forward to snatch back the alcohol, “What are you angry for now?”</p><p>          “Let Jaskier be.”</p><p>          Lambert pours himself another and then uses Jaskier's empty mug to serve one for Eskel which he doesn’t take on his hand when the Witcher pushes it his way. Lambert frowns to the seriousness that has taken over his brother, all though he had seen it coming the moment his untamed desires had gotten the better of him. Disquiet pulls at his stomach and he feels like huffing again, just so he could say he had tried to keep his mouth shut. It doesn’t work. </p><p>          “Why? Because Geralt may or may not have a thing for him?”</p><p>          “Or maybe because Jaskier deserves better than to be your play toy,” Eskel retorts sharply, yet takes the drink between his hands and drums his fingers over it once. “Ever considered that?</p><p>          “Ain’t nobody forcing him on the ring.”</p><p>          Lambert smiles arrogantly and shrugs as he brings the cup to his mouth. He is not the kind to regret doing what instinct dictates and favours waiting for what Eskel has to say before agreeing to the sudden turn of events which threatens his amusement. </p><p>          “Cut it with that attitude,” replies Eskel, who has never been fooled by neither of his brothers. He sees past the fog. He sees, most of all, the risk that lays ahead. “You’ve seen how he is. He could fall for the devil itself. </p><p>          “His fault, not mine.”</p><p>          Eskel squints his eyes but refuses to give in so easily to Lambert’s love to stirrup a fight with anyone over anything. This is the type of talk he needs them both to keep their heads cool since there’s simply too much in the line to risk it for pride or lust. With his drink in hand, he raises it and gestures towards Lambert with intent before giving him a warning as sharp as all his words prior. </p><p>          “If you take the one good thing Geralt has managed to keep and shred it to pieces, I will make sure you’re next.”</p><p>          He wets his lips with the liquor and takes a sip as the man before he barks out a laugh short and biting, nearly a snort. </p><p>          “That’s fucking rich coming from you, brother.” </p><p>          “Whatever do you mean?”</p><p>          “Oh, come on,” Lambert says acridly and rolls his eyes. “You’ve been at his back for two weeks like the plague. Hardly surprising; you’ve always had a soft spot for the good-hearted.”</p><p>          “Befriending him, you fucking asshole.”</p><p>          Lambert once again leans ever so slightly forward. With his elbows resting on the wood and the drink in hand, he doesn’t cower from the way Eskel is staring back, cold as can be. It isn’t unlike a Witcher to be emotionless, as expressive as a corpse, and yet here in Kaer Morhen, with each other, it is uncommon. It makes Lambert get defensive because it sure feels as if he’s under attack. As to why, he has two guesses, and he’s about to see which it is. </p><p>          “Look me in the eyes and mean it when you say you don’t want a piece of him.”</p><p>          “See that’s my point. A piece,” Eskel gestures with his free hand and his scowl deepens.  “It’s not a fucking hunt, Lambert. You can’t treat Jaskier like a piece of meat.”</p><p>          “Why so? ‘Cause you fancy him a little? Tough luck, Eskel. He wouldn’t deal with me if he didn’t want to.”</p><p>          “Screw you. You know what he means to Geralt.”</p><p>          Lambert raises his eyebrows in exaggerated and feigned surprise and leans back on the bench. The silence lengthens a bit as he takes the last sip of his cup and Eskel copies the gesture, slowly and tense. It is not in their nature to fight with each other, they are from the same herd.</p><p>          The fact that Eskel is, regardless of that, willing to confront Lambert tells the man that this is important to him. </p><p>          And now, he doesn’t have to guess, he knows why. Eskel does like Jaskier, which goes implied in his evasive answer, but most importantly he loves Geralt and whatever that may bring the White Wolf happiness, is something Eskel will protect. Lambert, despite that, is tired of watching the older Witcher play cat and mouse with his own heart and would rather give a push to it all, whatever the outcome. He tests the waters to see where Eskel stands, just to be sure. </p><p>          “Do I? Do we? All I see is that idiot still not going for what he wants. Maybe he doesn’t want it that much.”</p><p>          “We both know you don’t have it in you to do that to Geralt.”</p><p>          “I won’t, that’s true. He’s a bloody idiot but he’s as much my brother as he’s yours” he agrees, “Not that I’d have to do anything, anyway. Kaer Morhen will sooner turn to dust than he’d get his head out of his ass.”</p><p>          On that, Eskel won’t argue. He feels frustrated that Lambert’s words ring true. It’s most likely that Jaskier would never truly understand what he is to Geralt simply because the Witcher himself does not know, let alone know how to put it into words. Still, a hope shimmers within Eskel that this time something’s different and he ought to respect that.</p><p>          “He deserves this chance to get someone to see him for who he truly is and love him all the same. I’m serious Lambert, don’t you risk ruining it because you can’t keep it in your pants.”</p><p>          Lambert scrutinizes Eskel for a moment, fixing his eyes on the other’s, and sees reflected in them everything he needs to make a decision. In pursuit of peace, he raises his mug as if they were going to toast, almost at the same time that Eskel rises from his place too.</p><p>          “Keep your desires at bay, I’ll keep mine, brother.” </p><p>          “You better.” Eskel turns around and starts heading out of the kitchen for whatever he should have been doing that afternoon. Before that, he gestures to the table. “Clean up the mess, and don’t you dare lose me another card again.”</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>          In his desire to whistle out of that witch hunt that had become of an otherwise peaceful round of Gwent, Jaskier ends up on the first floor with his arms full of dirty clothes and little excuse as to why. Laundry gets done in the kitchen, then it’s hanged out in the front yard, which makes it that much more embarrassing now that he doesn’t even dare head back. </p><p>          He tilts his head forward and buries it in the heap of linen, wool and leather and on second thought, they do not smell that bad, only damp. He blushes further. They’re not dirty, merely wet, explaining why they had been laid by the fire. Not only had he high tailed out of their banter, therefore coming out as the loser, but his excuse crumbled further by the second. </p><p>          Jaskier sighs and throws a glance towards the balcony which is hidden away by screens made of dark wood and damask fabric. They’re not fully extended, inviting someone outside if need be, but they cover away enough of the archway that it’s implied Vesemir doesn’t wish to be bothered. On hindsight, neither does Jaskier wish to see the old Wolf just yet. It simply would prove too much and at the moment, all he wishes to do is either let out that frustration - How dare Lambert say such things? How cruel he be to stir such reaction out of Jaskier? Why won’t his mind, his body calm down as they should? </p><p>          With a fluttering heart, he makes a beeline for the one place in this keep he can call his own lair. He opens the door slowly but it creeks nonetheless and thus as he steps inside and pushes it shut with his hind, golden eyes are already looking up from the mountain of blankets that it’s Jaskier’s bed on top of the pallets. </p><p>          The gaze is soft and somnolent, as any man’s just awoken from pleasant deep sleep is bound to look like. It’s as unusual as flattering on that face sculpted from marble and if Jaskier’s mind weren’t a whirlwind, maybe he’d take a second to appreciate the softness that lingers on Geralt’s face and which doesn’t fade right away because in the presence of the bard he feels at ease. </p><p>          It doesn’t register in Geralt’s mind either for he’s too blissed out for that. One too many nights at the other side of the door had done that to him. Awaiting the passing of nightmares or the curse of insomnia that overtook Jaskier from time to time, he had neglected his own needs.</p><p>          “Hmm. What time is it?”</p><p>          “Late afternoon.”</p><p>          Jaskier can't look at Geralt's face when shame seizes him and it goes from head to foot like a snake, like a shiver. With bristly skin and cheeks like two ripe tomatoes, he pours his frustration on the clothes that he drops without precaution or care beside the brazier. He sits down on the edge of the pallets and with a sudden movement takes off his padded jack before the heat swallows him up.</p><p>          The brazier has been on for so many hours that the skylight is fogged and the air is hot and dry. Geralt drops his head back against the pillows with a grunt and frees Jaskier from having to worry about the remnants of his arousement that are slowly dying and ceasing to distort the pattern on his pants. His shame, though, is ever-growing. </p><p>          With nimble fingers he begins to tug at the laces violently, eager to remove as many suffocating garments as possible or in the heat, anger and shame he is sure to evaporate right there. The boots are left next to the bedside table and Jaskier, determined not to give his imagination another turn, unbuttons the start of his cotton shirt and begins to fold the clothes.</p><p>          “Lambert?” </p><p>          Geralt hits the nail on the head like he would a cockatrice and it only serves to break down the restraints of Jaskier’s irritation the same way an untimely downpour would burst a dam. He chooses not to mention the way that, even if he’s sure Jaskier is trying to stay as blithesome as usual, Kaer Morhen is shaping him to be a tad sharper, blunter. </p><p>          Maybe, he thinks, there’s too much in his shoulders and its weighting him down to the point that he can’t find the strength to be his lovely joyful self. It tangs his tongue bitterly and Geralt lends an ear for whatever is worth, so that Jaskier’s justified burnout may heal soon. </p><p>          “I just can’t with him. He drives me up the wall. He’s always trying to embarrass me, or anger me, or scare me. What have I ever done to him?”</p><p>          “Should make you happy, it means he likes you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”</p><p>          “On hindsight, no. Not really.”</p><p>          “It’s his way of bonding. Don’t take it personally.”</p><p>          Geralt says it in as gently a manner as he knows and props himself on his elbows until his back rests against the wall, removing his feet from the edge of the bed so that Jaskier might have more space to sit comfortable, which he does. </p><p>          “I’d love not to but it’s rather hard with the things he says.”</p><p>          “Which are?”</p><p>          Out of the corner of his eye, those blue orbs watch him cautiously as a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Geralt, who has already shaken off his stupor, does not miss the red of his cheeks. He’s grown used to seeing Jaskier’s body display his feelings as drastically as usually, the man does with words, which matches his very nature perfectly, and to see him coy makes him want to laugh. He doesn’t, pending that his collected state might calm Jaskier down and make him feel better, more like himself. </p><p>          “They are…” Jaskier hesitates. He truly doesn’t want to speak the truth but he’d rather not lie either. Not to Geralt who finds it so hard to trust. He hopes the Witcher will trust him and not push, so slowly his tone goes from hesitant to commanding. “not… that important. Nothing worth prying about. I assure you. Don’t.”</p><p>          Geralt raises his hand in a pacifying gesture and shrugs slightly which he thinks ought to calm the bard down from whatever has stressed him so badly. </p><p>          “Wasn’t planning to.” </p><p>          Geralt relaxes, lying there, his hands now on his lap and his gaze sliding down Jaskier. The heat in the room is almost excessive but he doesn't intend to stay for long, he just doesn't feel like wanting to leave the idyllic atmosphere of the library yet.</p><p>          The Witcher looks down to the smallest detail of the man sitting on the edge of the bed. Little by little, with each shirt folded, frustration drips from his body, evaporates into the environment and disappears, leaving the room in perfect calm and synchronous. The gestures turn from abrupt to the delicacy that normally characterizes them.</p><p>          He notices the long fingers and the ease with which they work. The somewhat slender wrists are followed by deceptively slender forearms, stronger than they appear and covered in hair exposed by the rolled-up sleeves.</p><p>          When soft whistles, barely audible and gentle toned, arise from those pink lips they do not break the silence, but rather accompany it affectionately. Geralt gets comfortable in his piece of bed and decides that he is not in a hurry.</p><p>          Jaskier's hair is already growing long and Geralt thinks that there is some old rag left to tear in the kitchen. With a strip of fabric, he could makeshift a headband so that hair the shade of pine bark would stop falling over his eyes. It’s a true bother when they train and a thought jumps out to him that this must be done as soon as possible, to diminish the risk of injury. He won’t deny as he gawks that there’s a captivating beauty to the way the hair curls lightly at earlobe-height and cups his rounded face prettily like a framework would that art the bard loves so dearly. </p><p>          Jaskier folds the last leg of the pants, squaring the seams perfectly, and stacks it with the others. Almost immediately, he falls backward with his arms wide open and his head almost collides with the bookshelf, causing Geralt to tense momentarily.</p><p>          His instinct to grab him disappears when a sigh of pleasure escapes from Jaskier who closes his eyes and enjoys the calm. Geralt closes them too. He hears the soft beat of his heart, the calm breathing that makes his torso rise and fall. His nose picks up the smell that’s unique to Jaskier. Under the grime and the sweat, there’s cinnamon and lemon, sharp yet sweet, alluring. </p><p>          And the thought rattles his brain. For how long has it been like this? The only thing that matters, he thinks, is that it stays so. The caw of a bird of prey makes him look to the skylight and upon seeing that not much light pours from it, he says</p><p>          “Too late for training, I fear.”</p><p>          “Oh, I’ve had enough of a fight downstairs.” </p><p>          Quickly, words begin to fall from Jaskier's mouth as he lazily and with as much dignity as an earthworm, crawls up the bed until he falls with a thud and a sight between Geralt and the bookshelf. He’s belly-down and turns his head on the pillow to look up at cat eyes and what they see is exhaustion. It’s rather domestic, the way they lay there in the sunset glow that sneaks in and share that speckle of peace that the world lets them have.</p><p>          “Don’t get me wrong I highly appreciate our lessons; love sweating like a pig while being publicly humiliated for the greater good, but today, I couldn’t lift a toothpick anymore.”</p><p>          His spirit makes Geralt smile faintly. He’s not one to pat himself in the back but he’s noticed that Jaskier is truly himself when he’s around him and that tugs the strings of his heart and reflects in a pull of cheeks, a smile. Not to say that Jaskier is a liar or that he pretends to be someone else with the other Witchers but there’s no denying he treads cautiously around them, willing to shape himself to fit easily into Kaer Morhen which is as logical to do as unnecessary, Geralt thinks. He fits perfectly among them; another stray, another one not to fit the mould. </p><p>          “Could’ve fooled me.”</p><p>          “Do you know what I want? Cosmic retribution. I deserve it!” </p><p>          Jaskier turns around on his place and points accusatorily at the ceiling as if the gods themselves were lingering there, prying in on their chatter. Then he sighs and drops his arm and when he does it falls on Geralt’s leg, because the bed barely has space for two people and the Witcher is sitting with his back against the wall. </p><p>          The hand curls above his knee and the elbow finds a good spot to rest right below his hipbone, and that’s how Jaskier gets comfortable as he throws his right leg above Geralt’s left without a second thought. Geralt doesn’t mutter a word since it’s rare the occasion where physical contact doesn’t tense him and instead, further relaxes him into his vigilant but relaxed posture. </p><p>          Finally, Jaskier sighs again, a tired breathy thing, and closes his eyes and finishes that he was saying about what he deserved and what he didn’t. Geralt can only do as much about cosmic retribution as what lays in his power, so he unties his hands in his lap and lets one of them reach for Jaskier’s forearm and carelessly caress it. He doesn’t think why, or if he should, he does it because it feels right and Jaskier sighs again, a tired content thing. </p><p>          “But I’d settle for a nap right about now. It’s just…”</p><p>          “Too much.”</p><p>          Jaskier hums and turns his arm around so that Geralt’s rough fingerpads glaze on top of the sensitive skin of his underarm. It tickles him pleasurably and his skin bristles. For a split second, Jaskier thinks that perhaps his heart should be ringing in his ears, that he should be sweating cold and his mind would be racing with inappropriate thoughts but Lambert’s influence is exiled in the presence of Geralt. Jaskier chooses to unbind that knot in his chest and free some of the thoughts that keep him up at night. </p><p>          “I don’t want to complain, Geralt. I know what the world takes me for, a cynic, a lecher, a womaniser and a liar.”</p><p>          “Will you ever forget that? It had been a long day. A long, frustrating, starving day.”</p><p>          “You said what you said, as has many others before. It honest to god upsets me on the greatest of days, however.” </p><p>          “Why? Are you not?”, Geralt taunts him and with his index, he traces the lines of Jaskier’s palm and each one of his fingers from the bottom to the tip. With his eyes closed, the bard sketches a smile on that catches the golden eyes’ attention. </p><p>          “Well, yes. Can be, I figure. But I’m so much more and I certainly would never put it in such crude, exaggerated manner. I’d like to believe I have deeds and virtues to speak of, as well.” </p><p>          “You do.”</p><p>          A chuckle leaves the curved lips and makes his shoulders shake gently, all of which the Witcher avidly takes in. Geralt finally takes his eyes away right the moment Jaskier’s open and he takes a look at the library. He looks for signs that he’s still dreaming even as he rarely ever sees anything other thank black on his sleep. It feels like a dream with the warmth and the calm, the peace and the safety and the way that it shouldn’t be real, it shouldn’t be his, but it is. Geralt isn’t certain what to do, or even what to feel. </p><p>          “Onto the list of things I’d never thought I’d hear,” whispers Jaskier and he’s looking up at him through the parted strands of dishevelled hair of his bangs, which the Witcher notices out of the corner of his eye. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?</p><p>          Silence follows and Jaskier fears their peace is going to shatter so he doesn’t even dare breath. What has he said? Where did that come from? Could swear he sees it around them, a ceramic chrysalis ready to crack. He can’t tear his gaze from the fingers that have stilled their trip amidst his wrist and lay there feeling his pulse; maybe it’s the last time he’ll see that, he thinks, and it’s so bitter to think it unnerves his stomach, threatens to make him puke his anxiety out.</p><p>          Then the fingers encircle his wrist and a thumb swipes over the skin his veins hide under of and he knows that Geralt is listening to his heartbeat. Jaskier can’t read minds and neither can Geralt and yet, blue eyes look up as golden ones look down and where they meet, unspoken words are shared. It’s nothing in particular and at once, is everything that it can be or needs to be. Their shared calm doesn’t break, it melts into something else.</p><p>          “Must have walked at least through half the continent. It’s surely not a short way.”</p><p>          “You know what I mean. </p><p>          “I do.”</p><p>          Something like the first brave snowflake that drives out autumn and the blossoming of a flower bud that kills winter. Like the first ray of sunlight and the last star of the night, brushing each other in the sky, condemned to meet and understand each other.</p><p>          Jaskier turns to Geralt and his mind is blank and the silence, for once, does not deafen him. It is not scary. It is not the silence of solitude. It is the silence of growing from a creeper, slow and safe, that engulfs the facade of a house and becomes part of the home.</p><p>          He hides his face between the rough surface of a blanket and Geralt's leg and his nose is invaded by the smell of tanned leather, perspiring wool and something distinctively Geralt; it smells like a haven, Jaskier knows that without having ever been in one. </p><p>          His arm wraps around strong legs in a way similar to how his leg does as well. Geralt's now free hand falls with the softness of a feather on his shoulder and although Jaskier would swear that for an instant he trembles indecisively his touch becomes firm and grounding.</p><p>          Unluckily, it squeezes there we a big, purple bruise has formed from training and it makes Jaskier flinch in pain and press closer to the furnace that Geralt’s body is. Right away the hand flees and he feels the body under him go as tense as he is, but when he relaxes, so does the Witcher, like he’s lost and bound to follow and trust whatever Jaskier does. It makes the bard dizzy with responsibility.</p><p>          “It’s fine. A bruise. Simply a long day, I’ll come on top of it.” </p><p>          Jaskier tightens his hold of Geralt and it makes the hand come back, still hesitant as before, slowly turning firm, to the top of his head, above his ear. The thick rough fingers entangle with soft strands of hair and Jaskier feels both lost and found. He’s never been more confused and yet sure of what he is to do. Something changes, shifts and they move with it, like dancers in a ballroom, in sync with each other. </p><p>          “In a way, it’s been overall great, if I do say so myself.”</p><p>          “Hmm.”</p><p>          “Which brings me to even greater news.” With his lips against Geralt's pants, the words are muffled but he is confident that the Witcher can hear him.</p><p>          “Greater than my company? Can’t be.”</p><p>          “Oh, please, keep your self-deprecating humour for later. You wouldn’t want to take away from the joy that my words will bring.” </p><p>          Jaskier chuckles a soft, warm puff of air against the wool and Geralt feels it as if hot steel had been pressed against him there where hip meets leg. However, he refuses to close his eyes to the sensation and miss what that lays before him; the thought doesn’t even cross his mind. </p><p>          “Well, Vesemir’s words I guess.”</p><p>          “Vesemir?”</p><p>          “Yes, he, great Witcher, an even better man, shall join us in our rescue for dear Essi.” </p><p>          When Geralt doesn’t answer right away, even in a physical way, Jaskier opens his eyes and gazes up through thick lashes. The man is looking down at him and his face has no smile, he utters no playful words, and yet, there’s an affection to the gold that doesn’t pass inadvertently to Jaskier. </p><p>          “… You don’t look surprised. Did he already tell you?”</p><p>          “He did not.” </p><p>          “Then?” And Geralt brushes his fingers through the hair and follows the way the strands part and slide through his hardened skin. Jaskier’s closes his eyes for a second, perhaps to take in the pleasure the gesture elicits. Geralt feels the texture between his fingers, appreciates the softness of rounded cheeks, watches his own reflection in the blue, which he’s never care to do before. </p><p>          “Whether because of your bleeding heart or due to the honesty of your plead, Vesemir hardly stood a chance. He comes off as distant and cold-” </p><p>          “You mean, like a Witcher?”</p><p>          “... but the very reason he tells us not to stray from our unspoken code is that he very well knows the pains it brings. He sought to protect us, Jaskier, but by you becoming his pupil, he ought to protect you too. That includes your heart.”</p><p>          Jaskier, whose eyelids are tired and intermittently closing, makes an effort to keep them open. There is so much that he wants to ask and feels that the answers are floating in the air, for those who dare to take them. But he doesn't dare. He doesn't even know what he really wants to know. He doesn't even know what he knows.</p><p>          “...What?”, asks Geralt. </p><p>          “Maybe you should take naps more often if it leaves you this pliable and talkative.”</p><p>          “Maybe I shouldn't if you'll take advantage of it.”</p><p>          Playfully, his fingers tug at his hair, causing Jaskier to let out a sharp sigh of surprise and his hands tighten in his grip on the leg. His smile broadens and he denies with a shake of his head, which makes his nose rub against the seam of the trousers.</p><p>          “Would never!”</p><p>          “Sure.”</p><p>          Geralt watches as those eyes slowly close with each knot that his fingers untangle. Jaskier resists Morpheus' arms but allows himself to rest his eyes. Geralt returns his attention to the door and in a way, it's like waking up again.</p><p>          Not because the dream fades, because it doesn't. The sleepy bard, holding Geralt like his lifeline, just nuzzles his side and burrows closer, gets comfortable. Then Geralt hears it. A distinctive clangour from the kitchen. Someone has dropped a pot.</p><p>          “I must go before Lambert sets the kitchen on fire.”</p><p>          “Didn't take you for a cook.”</p><p>          Arm and leg are removed from his and instead of taking off weight, it seems to be added. They slide over and away from him begrudgingly. Jaskier inches away until his hand no longer presses against Geralt. He frees his fingers from the dishevelled hair. Geralt thinks he could go on without eating for a while, maybe for more than a while, if he can keep this emotion that has taken over them. </p><p>          Whatever it is, however it’s called, it compares to nothing he’s ever felt. It’s raw, it’s genuine and most of all, it’s good. It’s so rare to feel good, he’s not sure he’s processing it correctly. To be honest, he is not trying. His body and mind ar both to taken by the chance to feel such bliss to dampen the occasion with futile thinking. </p><p>          “I'm not. I just know what to say to get Eskel into the kitchen, which he very much despises but is skilled at. Don't fall asleep now, alright?</p><p>          “I'll do my best.”</p><p>          Geralt gets up slowly and when he looks over his shoulder, standing there in the middle of the library, Jaskier is looking back at him. He waves goodbye slowly and his sleepy gaze follows Geralt as he heads for the exit, but he doesn’t head out right away. With one hand on the wooden door, half pushing it open, they share their last words. </p><p>          “And Jaskier?”</p><p>          “Hmm?”</p><p>          “You're doing your best. You should be proud. I mistook you for very long for little more than a rascal if painted under the best light, but I know better now and if you'll have them, offer my apologies for the ways I might have made you feel before.”</p><p>          That does get a weight off his chest, especially when Jaskier’s gentle gaze doesn’t falter. He pulls at the door a little more and the bard tugs at the blankets. They’re so warm because Geralt had been laying on top of them and when he cocoons himself within them, they shelter him with their smell. He closes his eyes to the darkness his makeshift cave of cotton offers. He’ll stand up soon, so he might keep his promise to stay awake, but as of now, he’ll indulge in the feeling. </p><p>          “Nothing but excitement and confidence have you brought into my life, my dear Witcher.” </p><p>          “You lie but the sentiment is well received.”</p><p>          “Maybe. But that is all that I wish to remember and treasure.”</p><p>         Jaskier hears it when the door closes with a soft click. He sighs and resigns himself to his destiny, removing the sheets from above. If he stays there, he will fall asleep. He stretches like a cat and yawns like one, shakes his head, tousles his hair, and glances around the room. Hopelessly his gaze falls on his lute.</p><p>          “What a day, huh? At times I wish I were you, just sitting around looking pretty… but that’s no life for a rover, is it?”</p><p>          The fog still surrounds him and the heat is still almost suffocating but just seeing the case is enough for a breath of cold air to sneak between the cotton and his skin and bring him uncertainty. He hasn't played in two weeks. He sees himself as incapable. The notebook has kept him healthy in mind but the notes only come from his throat on the best of days; the lute seems forbidden ground.</p><p>          “I’m sure Essi is alright and as to me… well, I’m managing,” he tells the lute, caresses the rough case’s texture and squats by its side. “It’s a rather pleasant time we’re having here, right? Who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to strum you soon enough if these people we’re stranded with concede us the chance; we’d make their hardened hearts melt.”</p><p>          He sighs and turns on his heel to drop his weight against the bookshelf next to the door. On the other side of him and his lute is the metal bowl and the broken hand mirror, resting on a shelf. In his distorted reflection, Jaskier stares into his own eyes.</p><p>          “What am I doing, speaking alone? There’s just so much pent up is reasonable to let it out some way, right? It’s not demented to do so, no.” He turns his head to his beloved lute and his hand that rests on its fine curves. “I’d say I wish I had someone to talk to but that’d be rather rude, having you right here. Ultimately, it all started with you. Do you miss Toruviel? I hope not, I hope you love me as I love you.”</p><p>          The word hangs heavy on his tongue and maybe it is all he has been through but it already sounds less like ambrosia, like a poem that remains a poem because it is impossible for it to be otherwise. The feeling constricts his lungs. He does not know where it comes from or if it has come to stay. It’s a drowning calm that dribbles down his body and forces him to lean all his weight against creaking old wood. </p><p>          “Love… not a silly thing, is it? Empires rise and fall on its name. We live and die in its search. It’s easy to forget how powerful it is and then… be humbled when it brings us to our knees.”  Then he chuckles. “Not that I’d know, right? Still trying to figure out what pleases me…”</p><p>          With a numb mind that does the first thing that comes to it, that does not argue or reason, he takes the half-open collar of his shirt with his free hand and takes it to his nose. It just smells like a long, damn endless day, and nothing like it should. Nothing like what Jaskier wants it to. He doesn’t dwell on the implications of his desires; he’s far too tired for that. </p><p>          “It does smell like Geralt, I guess, if only after wrestling a hoard of drowners knees-deep in a bog.” </p><p>          His hand slides down his chest and the pounding of his heartbeat tickle his fingertips. The other hand follows. They reach his waist and he feels the hardness of the muscle, the heat that his skin gives off through the fabric, the bone. During the blink of an eye, the voice in his head is not his own but Lambert's and his fingers reach out to try to encircle his waist, but they don't touch each other in the middle where under his navel hair swirls and blackens. He has watched Geralt closely enough times to know that his hands could do it, that Lambert is right. </p><p>          A soft laugh escapes his lips, gentle and as warm as the heat that envelops him and onto which he blames his faint blush. He licks his lips, presses them in a tight line and looks at those eyes that are his own in the shards of the mirror. </p><p>          “I do really need a nap, don’t I? It’s silly, foolish! And yet, here I wonder what it’d be like.” his hands nervously play with the buttons which are old enough that a little tinkering would just make them come undone. “Must have hit my head on that obstacle course, my dear, apologies.”</p><p>          The mist is dispersing from his mind and it is much like the wind that blows, cold and encouraging and gives him a chill on a morning spring. Jaskier thinks about when he met Geralt at the inn and when he really did meet him, at least a small part of him, in the cave, tied back to back. The conversation between elf and Witcher, between two outcasts, that ringer true to heart.</p><p>          He remembers the urge to fight dissipated when he realized how difficult the world truly is. The complicated thing about living and letting live is that it is rarely an option that one can take. In the end, Jaskier thinks, you are only responsible for your own actions and you can do little for what others have done, for better or for worse. He cannot return Dol Blathana to the elves, nor would he want to take away the houses of the honest villagers. Cannot stop the war or hasten the arrival of peace. Cannot brush away the scars that Geralt bears, the burden that he carries.</p><p>          Those things are very big, they scare him, keep him awake at night and are out of his control. But other things, little things, worldly things, give him hope. They add to the heat of the brazier and become the phantom touch of rough fingers on his forearm.</p><p>          It is the security of falling asleep in the rocking chair in the living room and waking up in his small bed with his mohair soft toy. The soothing warm milk when thunder wakes him up. He won’t have those things back, but now he has others. </p><p>          The sound of the river current as he walks behind Roach, playing his lute, composing his songs. A newfound purpose. The crackling of the fire by the side of the road, sharing stories, sleeping safely, closing his eyes for the last time and the broad back, the sword at hand being the last thing he sees. A newfound place. </p><p>          To proclaim his exploits, protect the Witcher from the vileness of people who want to do him wrong. Even if it is not necessary, even if his prose and insult are ridiculous in the face of rude, pissed off countrymen who’ve got not the brains to understand, to see past the cold amber eyes. </p><p>          “He does have a heart of gold, guess that’s why it weighs him so.”</p><p>          There's a smile in the lips of the man in the mirror, a yearning in his gaze. Jaskier’s fingers reach out to touch its match on his own lips and he sighs. Realization doesn't dawn on him, it instead creeps its way up from his ankles like a shiver, coils in his belly like a snake of coals and spreads through him until he's grinning like a fool and his blush has only deepened further enough that he looks sick with a fever. It's vertiginous, his heart trembles and alights. </p><p>          The door opens slowly as if Geralt expected him to have fallen asleep and on the slit of the open door, the Witcher looks down at the floor by the entrance where Jaskier and the lute sit. </p><p>          “Dinner’s ready…” he frowns slightly at the glazed gleam of Jaskier’s eyes and wonders, did he fall asleep there? Is that why his eyes are teary? “Are you alright? You’re red a lot lately. Do you have a fever?”</p><p>          He pushes the heavy door open fully and stoops to his side, there nuder the arch of the entryway and his big, rough, warm hand goes to Jaskier’s forehead and firmly presses to check his temperature and the fingers slink between strands of hair. His skin is hot to the touch but the brazier is still on, so he doesn’t jump to conclusions. </p><p>          “Maybe it was too soon for the course.” He considers. “We shall see how you wake up tomorrow. Let’s go, before dinner gets cold.”</p><p>          And Jaskier takes the jacket in his hands when Geralt passes it to him. The bard waits as the man extinguishes the brazier and then follows him through the fortress toward the kitchen light, his gaze riveted on his back. Geralt mentions nothing of the silence, figures Jaskier is truly tired.</p><p>          Through dinner, nobody points it out. Vesemir breaks the bread with his hands and hands him out a loaf. His gaze, analytical, washes over Jaskier but the old wolf says nothing, whether or not he sees anything on the way the newcomer looks ahead, at Geralt on the other side of the table and the way he elbows Eskel and shares a laugh and another amusing hunting tale starts to form in Lambert’s lips, and everybody listens. </p><p>          Everybody but Jaskier who can only hear his own breathing, his own heart. He who looks at Geralt not because he’s hearing his clever retort, the one that gets Lambert to grunt at him and threateningly point the knife, duck’s tender boiled meat hanging from the edge, at his brother, but because he simply can’t turn his gaze away. He’s never seen a man so strong with scars so deep with a laugh like a shooting star, unusual and flaring and wild.  </p><p>          He’s fallen in love and he can’t get up; he doesn’t even try. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Eskel really did say bros before hoes 😗 -in a way, you know what I mean-<br/>In this household, we stand slow love realizations and unprompted cuddling fueled by sleepiness. Period.<br/>Did you like it? Let me know!<br/>What do you think? What's on Geralt's mind? Will Lamber behave? Is Eskel truly capable of keeping to his own words? What will Jaskier do now?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Martyr on the sidelines.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>          Expelled from his usual morning domain - the balcony - Jaskier enjoyed the pleasant sun rays and the lack of clouds sitting on the wooden stump. On his legs lay a tome on vampires, and thick linen yarn in his hands. As he skimmed over the report of an old Witcher his fingers danced in an intricate pattern that laced the strands together tightly at the top. </p><p> </p><p>        Proper staining with madder lake had turned them a rich red colour; surely a professional's work for which Jaskier was dutifully grateful as this new lecture had proven particularly boring. The linen was superbly threaded and slowly but surely turned into yet another boorish tassel in his hands. Regardless of the lack of refinement, Jaskier was certain it’d be strikingly beautiful when dangling from Roach’s braided mane. </p><p> </p><p>        A bleat and a headbutt to his dangling legs have him yelping in pain. Right away, he sneaks the soon-to-be tassel between the pages he's at so he might close the book and slam it on Lil Bleater's head without losing his progress. The goat bleats again and shakes its backside happily, then looks up at Jaskier with those strange eyes it's got. The bard huffs and rubs at his thigh which throbs with leftover pain. </p><p> </p><p>        “What are you doing here? You’ll make Eskel grow grey hairs and then how will people know who’s the White Wolf, uh?” Jaskier sighs and smiles. He pats the head with its little horns, scratches it. “I can see it in your crazy eyes. You’re planning to single-handedly end my flourishing career, you sly rascal.”</p><p> </p><p>        “Is he, now?” </p><p> </p><p>        “Eskel, good morning!” Jaskier greets. </p><p> </p><p>        He has developed a sixth sense not so much to hear them coming, but so that his heart does not skip a beat when they appear out of nowhere behind him. Eskel stares for a few seconds at Jaskier, at the winter-birthed pink tint of his nose and the lack of compassion Vesemir has to have tasked him with Brother Adalbert's bestiary. He doubts whether to tell him or not, but decides that were it a false alarm, it’d give him hope for nought. Jaskier notices the indecision and gestures to the little goat.</p><p> </p><p>        “You make a man fear for dear life with your silence,” he jokes, “Don’t fret. I’ve fed him nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>        “As you should. No treats for bad boys.” Eskel agrees good-humouredly and grabs Lil Bleater by the collar, eliciting another ear-piercing bleat. His refined ears beep and he winces and growls, “Oh, shut it.”</p><p> </p><p>        “He can stay. I like the company; he takes after his owner.” </p><p> </p><p>        Jaskier opens the book again and puffs the threads that have become flattened by the weight by shaking the half-woven tassel energetically. Eskel hauls the goat to his arms with the precaution of holding its snout tightly closed with a hand. One bleat a morning is enough. Lil Bleater, however, quickly falls prey to the warmth of the Witcher’s body and resigns itself to its fate, just resting there. </p><p> </p><p>        “Better not. He has a tendency to munch on the dummies if unsupervised.” </p><p> </p><p>        Eskel doesn’t leave yet as he has no reason to rush to the tower until the crow arrives and he very much cherishes Jaskier’s company. In a life of greys and monotony that’s painted him in tired, apathetic and cynical hues, Jaskier is a new layer of paint with the joy he brings and his smile like a blossoming flower. It’s only fair and inevitable to fall victim to his charms, even if they aren’t for Eskel. He won’t tell -it is not the kind of thing to be rushed, he’d know- but he clings to the hope that Jaskier, who loves Geralt, will be allowed to love Geralt. Eskel can’t. </p><p> </p><p>        Still, nothing ever stops the longing. A glance upwards, to the balcony, let’s him eye at white long hair and broad shoulders, listen to the rushed whispering of Vesemir who disagrees with Geralt upon something private. Jaskier looks up too.</p><p> </p><p>        “What’s the matter? They’ve not even allowed me to pick my quill. Just urged me out of there with this wretched, heavy, tedious thing on my hands.” </p><p> </p><p>        Eskel shrugs as if he doesn’t know. He puts down the goat and slaps it on its back so, with yet another bleat, Lil Bleater storms off, incensed, without even looking back. Jaskier makes room for the Witcher that sits with him at the wide stump. Lately, he’s been feeling left out. There’s a strange tension in the air that nobody mentions and in a keep full of straightforward Witchers, strangers to second-guessing and pointless diplomacy, that’s novel. </p><p> </p><p>        Jaskier can’t help but think it ought to have something to do with him. He decides not to let it worry him. If it were important, he wants to believe that Geralt would tell him. On the other hand, not everything is bad. In fact, that's the only thing that makes him squint and try to listen behind closed doors.</p><p> </p><p>        The training goes smoothly at full sail. Geralt is an excellent teacher, patient and merciless and to whom not a detail escapes. And sure enough, Jaskier considers himself fortunate to spend the evenings gasping between strike and counterattack so that his racing heart rate may be excused on the efforts. </p><p> </p><p>        In a way, it is true, but it will not be he who denies how the heat rises up his chest to his face when they press close. How would he dare to dispute he waits eagerly for the stars to rise so that he might find strong hands easing aches away as Jaskier sneaks playful banter amidst the spoken lessons? He wouldn’t dare. No, sir. </p><p> </p><p>        Another thing he doesn't dare to do is let his hopes get ahead of him. It's easy and dangerous and he simply won't allow it. At night between the blankets and the pallets a helpless sigh escapes. And it is that drowsiness entangles him between memories and desires. He is caught in Geralt's steady hands guiding his body. Lost in the short abrupt laugh that Jaskier manages to tease out. The pleasant company, a friendly push, another smile. Afternoons spent watching the sunset and asking questions that do not always have to do with the lesson. </p><p> </p><p>        Everything preys on him and makes him feel alive and he wants to believe that Geralt feels so too. That he also wants and waits for it and finds in their shared evenings an enjoyment, rather than an obligation.</p><p> </p><p>        That’s only a wish, so he doesn’t dwell on it for a second too long. Any enamoured is bound to try and fill the desires of their heart with the space between lines but Jaskier, who has written countless poems, knows that’s a skill that does him more harm than good. </p><p> </p><p>        A caw echoes in the deceptive silence of the mountains and Eskel turns his gaze from the balcony towards the bright blue sky and the feathery dark shape that crosses it straight and fast like an arrow. Jaskier follows the crow too and watches it land elegantly on the ledge of the tower's window. Vesemir's room is up there, in the stairs that take above the second floor, where Kaer Morhen's primary wizard used to have his quarters. </p><p> </p><p>        “I must go,” Eskel says right away. Jaskier waves a hand to his back and the speed with which he rushes into the keep and blinks himself away from the daydreaming that had overtaken him. </p><p> </p><p>        For a split second, the urge to stand up and follow reigns supreme but at last, he settles back comfortably on the stump, sighs, exasperated, and keeps threading and reading. No point in trying to get a Witcher to talk on what they don’t wish to -he knows that too well. It hurts to be left out, but he’s not one to cry like a baby; he’d rather own it and focus on the positives. He smiles softly, thinks of the afternoon to come. There’s plenty of positives, so it’s hard to stay mad. </p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p> </p><p>        Eskel hurries up the steps. Luckily, Vesemir and Geralt continue to argue in whispers behind the folding screens. Behind the door to the circular room, the answer awaits him patiently, inked on a small piece of folded papyrus and tied to the crow's leg.</p><p> </p><p>        To those who did not know the emissary, the message would seem little more than stripes and dots, a meaningless doodle. Eskel still remembers enough to read it, although he has not seen the woman whose name he does not yet know for several years. It is not relevant. She is a reliable contact and is still alive thanks to him, so the information contained in the message is the only of interest since it’s trustworthy.</p><p> </p><p>        His clenched fist strikes the stone ledge and the crow caws in fright and rises into the air in a flurry of feathers. It doesn't matter if it leaves; the channel is only one way. Eskel growls, angry at the games of fate, and raises a hand to his forehead before setting fire to the small letter.</p><p> </p><p>        This was always a possibility, he knows, but still it angers him. The door opens again. No one enters the wizards’ old rooms, now Vesemir’s, without the aforementioned making an appearance.</p><p> </p><p>        "Well?" He asks.</p><p> </p><p>        Eskel chases the crow away without the slightest delicacy and turns to his mentor. He regains control quickly, as he has learned to do throughout his life. Vesemir awaits his response as he searches for the right map among the many scrolls, documents, and books on his personal shelf.</p><p> </p><p>        "You were right," admits Eskel.</p><p> </p><p>        He sits down on the ledge and waits for the door to open again; Geralt. There is hardly any space between the window and the bed. The room is tiny and overflowing. Still, the newcomer makes his way through the gap between Vesemir's back, glued to the desk and the bookshelf above it, and the foot of the bed, until he reaches Eskel's side. Geralt sits at the edge of the bed and his knees are grazing Eskel’s sheens where they dangle. </p><p> </p><p>        “So?” Geralt asks him. </p><p> </p><p>        It’s easier to tell the truth to Vesemir than it is to the man that’s his other half but to lie would be pointless and dangerous. If anything, knowing the truth would heighten the possibilities of survival. Eskel wishes for nothing more deeply than he does for Geralt to come back from Riedburne in one piece, or gods help the Nilfgaardians. Eskel will skin each one of them alive. </p><p> </p><p>        "Bad news" admits Eskel. "It will be at Fen Aspra, not Thurn. Construction has already started. The Velda River is our best option."</p><p> </p><p>        "I already told you. Jaskier is terrified of water."</p><p> </p><p>        "Well, he can hurry to lose that silly fear," Vesemir growls and turns around. Silence reigns in the room. Even if Jaskier learnt to swim, it is suicide. Impossible.</p><p> </p><p>        "He almost lost his life as a child, it's not that simple. You forget he's just a man."</p><p> </p><p>        "That is exactly what you forget, not me. You are blinded." Vesemir gestures contemptuously towards Geralt's chest and receives a growl of protest in return, but he is right. "You know that boy is a stubborn one. He'll go after Miss Daven even if it's the last thing he does. I've buried a lot of idiots like him. The best we can do for him is to force him to learn."</p><p> </p><p>        "We will not bury anyone," Geralt replies in a tight voice, and Eskel hears the lump form in her friend's throat. It makes him a little sad but above all, it makes him anxious. If Jaskier goes, Geralt goes. The question that remains is, who returns? If someone comes back to begin with.</p><p> </p><p>        "I have always been good at swimming. I can teach him. We all know that it’d take indulgence and leniency." Eskel looks out the window and Jaskier is still on the stump, reading and knitting. "I don't want to get into a fight, we already have enough problems, but I don't think Geralt is the most suitable for it."</p><p> </p><p>        "What's that for?" Geralt replies with a frown. He feels more offended than the words deserve, especially knowing that Eskel says it with good intention. "As far as I know he is learning to use the sword perfectly. And enjoying it too."</p><p> </p><p>        "Eskel is right," interrupts Vesemir. "You’re as stubborn as that boy and nearly more stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>        “Way to boost morale”, grunts Geralt sardonically. </p><p> </p><p>        “Face it. Either you’d be too soft or you’d be too harsh. It’s better if it’s me.”</p><p> </p><p>        “As long as you do a good job, there’s no reason to argue over this.” shrugs Geralt, even if that’s not what he truly thinks. </p><p> </p><p>        He won’t speak his mind. It’s embarrassing enough already to have Vesemir scowl him in that sly, subtle way of his. It’s neither the place nor the time to deal with the thoughts that haunt him so Geralt stands up to leave. Eskel follows suit and they leave Vesemir behind.</p><p> </p><p>        They go down the steep staircase with steps so worn down they are slippery and the edge is blunt. The fresh air that gets in through the second-floor balcony refreshes them a little. It removes the chest tightness that the news have left when Geralt takes a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>        They are Witchers. And never has a Witcher died in bed. That's not where the problem lies. Geralt walks past the folding screens and gazes into the front yard and there's Jaskier still. And his silly tune he whistles makes Lil' Bleater bleat out of tune. The sight fills Geralt with ease before it overwhelms him with worry. He turns to Eskel who's there like a shadow. Who's always been there for him. </p><p> </p><p>        There's something that people find puzzling about Eskel wherever he goes. Even after growing together, fighting side by side, not even Geralt could tell why or where it comes from. But it's there right now. It comes and goes but now, it's there. On any other eyes, Geralt would call it tenderness. But for a Witcher, that's a silly word. Even for Eskel who's always treated Geralt like his own blood, that's nonsense, isn't it?</p><p> </p><p>        Maybe it's that talent for magic he's got, that's what Geralt thinks. That's surely what makes Eskel that bit more humane, that bit more connected to the world around them. Geralt's never thought it has anything to do with himself because Eskel is a good Witcher, great even, but he's an even better liar. </p><p> </p><p>        It's not for Geralt nor anybody else to know that the trickery to understand one's tangled mutated heart it's merely to spend years upon years trying to untangle somebody else's -Geralt's. Now that's how, but as to why? </p><p> </p><p>        Even Eskel fears to say it out loud, or else it'd turn into some demon and bring him down. One thing they both agree on is love's not something you can carry on the Path. So they leave it behind, way behind, in the past. </p><p> </p><p>        Geralt tells himself whatever he feels as he leans on the balcony, that's not love. Eskel finds his spot by his side and he too looks at Jaskier who can bring so much to the life of the man he loves and tells himself, it’s alright. That's the right thing to do. </p><p> </p><p>        “Eskel.”</p><p> </p><p>        “Yes?”</p><p> </p><p>        “Allow me to be the one to tell him the news. After all, you’re not coming with us. I appreciate what you’ve done, I truly do, but I ought to be the one by his side. This will hurt him deeply.” </p><p> </p><p>        “Is that so? Or do you not wish for me to get closer to Jaskier? Allow me to ease your fears. I won’t do a thing. For instance, I agree.”</p><p> </p><p>        “I didn’t say…” Geralt sees the arched brow and the disbelief in Eskel’s eyes, the face of someone who’s not buying his lie. He frowns and shakes his head and there’s no doubt or lie in what he says. “If he wants you near him, that’s fine with me.”</p><p> </p><p>        “Then?”</p><p> </p><p>        “I also want to be near him.”</p><p> </p><p>        “Sure. But why?”, Eskel pushes. Maybe he hopes for a sentence, for Geralt to be his garroter. But there's no need; he makes sure day to day to kill those hopes himself. </p><p> </p><p>        “What do I know? It’s just…” Geralt gestures in annoyance to his chest, much like Vesemir had done. He must remind himself this is Eskel, his other half, so that he finds the strength to speak plainly and with honesty, even as he doesn’t have an answer to give. “...strange.”</p><p> </p><p>        “You should just act on it then. Maybe that way you’d know”</p><p> </p><p>        “Hmm.”</p><p> </p><p>        “You don’t believe me.”</p><p> </p><p>        They share a few seconds of silence that contrasts wildly with the chaos of their minds. Lil Bleater finally manages to steal a tassel from Jaskier’s little mountain of carefully threaded yarn which gets the bard to curse him and jump to his feet after the little horned devil.  Eskel claps him in the back and squeezes his shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie and in doing so, earns Geralt’s attention.</p><p> </p><p>        “Well, you will. If I’m right, the moment it happens, you will know.” Eskel’s gaze still holds that shine to it that Geralt can’t find a proper name for but that has brought him assurance and strength in all the time they’ve known each other, as it does now. “So will you? Will you act on it?” </p><p> </p><p>        Geralt shrugs and rubs his tired face with both hands. He lets them linger in a prayer position in front of his nose with his thumbs under his chin and tries to rest his mind. There are priorities to respect, and Jaskier’s life is one of them. </p><p> </p><p>        Whatever the shortage of breath is due to when he hears that pristine, bell-like laughter echo as Lil Bleater is chased by Jaskier, well, that’s for another day. He turns around, goes for his room. There’s no focus to be found as long as Jaskier is around. </p><p> </p><p>        “That better be a yes, Geralt.” Eskel shouts at him from where he leans at the railing. “Don’t have me die one day and leave you alone. I’ll come back to haunt your sorry ass.” </p><p> </p><p>        “What about you don’t die before me at all, uh?”</p><p> </p><p>        “Oh, ‘cause you’d miss me dearly?”, Eskel teases him. His heart beats a tiny bit faster and the words feel wrong in his tongue. That feeling is fear and is as unwelcome as common when it comes down to this. A risk not worth taking, Eskel thinks. He’s proven wrong. </p><p> </p><p>        “Of course. You’re my true family.”  </p><p> </p><p>        Eskel closes his eyes and swallows and the patio disappears from before him. It hurts and he likes it at the same time because those are not the words he wants to hear but those are the ones he can have, and at the very least they are something. Coming from Geralt, they’re everything. He looks back at the patio and at Jaskier who rolls through the snow to play with the young goat. The pain lessens. Jaskier. Geralt. <em> That’s fine </em> , he says to himself, <em> I can be happy between two worlds. After all, I'm a Witcher, that's how we live and that's how we die.  </em></p><p>        From the door to his room, Geralt twists the door knob and jokingly says to Eskel, who glances at him over the shoulderpads of that black and red tacked jacket of his. </p><p> </p><p>        “Don’t tell the others, though. Don’t want Lambert kicking me extra hard in training, you know how jealous he gets.”</p><p> </p><p>        A laugh escapes Eskel's split lip, manly and deep and somewhat bittersweet. Little more than two weeks it’s all that’s taken to fall again, and it is so easy, it is almost routine. He looks Geralt in the eye and doesn't regret it. That is his place in the world, at his side. Either way. However Geralt needs him.</p><p> </p><p>        “He does. He does”, he coincides with a smile.</p><p> </p><p>        Geralt hums and chuckles and closes the door. Eskel turns his attention back to the howling victory of Jaskier who, covered in snow and mud, gets back his ruined tassel from Lil Bleater’s mouth. The Witcher sighs, then smiles tenderly. Jaskier looks up by chance and spots him, then shakes his hand energetically, nearly his whole arm, in a joyful greeting. Eskel salutes back lazily. It’s fine. It’s fine. He can be happy watching from the sides. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I literally have so many chapters sketched but no, university really looked me in the eyes and said, you know what? Two months of unhappiness for you. For free.<br/>Fuck my life.<br/>Hope you enjoy this chapter.<br/>My baby Eskel doesn't think he and Geralt are a match. They've been friends for too long, haven't they? It's too late.<br/>Not that it'd matter if everybody dies, of course.<br/>Ahemn.<br/>See you around.<br/>Stay safe and happy and if you can't be happy. stay alive. I'm proud of you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. The games we play.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To say that Jaskier is frustrated would be an understatement. He may overlook being ignored, shunned like the plague. Who knows, maybe he said something wrong. For how collected and cold a Witcher could be, they were also awfully easy to bother. </p><p> </p><p>Are two weeks enough to drain the Witchers' patience with his relentless chatter? Maybe, but no, there is something else. Something that itches under his skin. He is fed up.</p><p> </p><p>One after another, his afternoons have been ruined by that ghost, son of tension and silence, which seems to haunt Jaskier. With an exasperated snort, he rubs his hair with the old towel. Bathwater cools faster every day as winter reaches its peak and kitchen fires are not enough to prevent it. Lambert looks up from the deck he's ordering. Eskel has hightailed out of the kitchen with a poorly mumbled excuse and a curse to befall on Geralt. For what? Jaskier doesn't know but he wholeheartedly agrees. He starts to dry his body, standing close to the fire, and the water’s path down the planes and curves of his body only fastens. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier, who has grown fond of fencing, since to him it differs little from finding the right rhythm for a poem, feels that learning is graceless without a little humour. And lately, there isn't. Geralt is more weighed down than the anchor of a ship because of what he has meant to say for days. And it is so that he stares at Jaskier with intent throughout their lessons as if the poor bard could read minds. As if enough isn't done by understanding those meaningless grunts and weaving them into a proper conversation! Fed up he is, yes. Up to the nose.</p><p> </p><p>Now, he is not one to hold grudges against friends, or else the same fate could befall him. Were that to be so and by the fault of his mischief, his friends would hold enough rancour so as not to speak to him again. Not that it would make much of a difference, Jaskier thinks. Lambert seems to be the only living soul in Kaer Morhen not to flee upon his arrival. Then again, he's also the only one not to be keeping a secret. </p><p> </p><p>"Another day, another run of Gwent, uh?" Jaskier tries to be jovial because pissing off Lambert is both easy and unadvisable. Especially so now that the snarky man is his only company. Another strange thing, even if it pales in comparison, is Lambert's reserve.</p><p> </p><p>“Obviously.” </p><p> </p><p>Ever since that fateful day when Jaskier's wonder unravelled into outright love for a certain albino, the youngest Witcher has been remarkably polite. Not as in the nice kind of polite, but simply... well, quiet. Jaskier would even say the man looks tired. More specifically, tired of Geralt.</p><p> </p><p>Now that the open-ended bombing of his callous remarks doesn't target Jaskier it's easy to see who's fallen prey to it. Geralt, being Geralt, responds to the onslaught with refined indifference. Jaskier doesn't miss that nor the fact that it must be linked to whatever unspoken words won't leave his lips. Once again, as he stands by the fire to get dressed, he tries to pry information from Lambert. </p><p> </p><p>"Where has Eskel gone?"</p><p> </p><p>But Lambert only shrugs, glances at him in his naked state, grunts, frowns and turns his attention back to the cards. Jaskier makes sure to dry every crevice between his toes, eager to depart his backside from the cold of the ties. </p><p> </p><p>"Ask him at dinner."</p><p> </p><p>"What about Geralt? He flew off after class. He's been doing that a lot lately, may I add."</p><p> </p><p>"Don’t know. Don’t care.” Lambert’s voice quickly grows tense, angered. Most of all, frustrated. “That cowardly jerk can burn where he has gone to hide."</p><p> </p><p>"Hide?"</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier curls the towel around his neck and gives up on the attempt of drying all the hair in his body, which is what any wise man would do. Instead, he reaches for the clean change of clothes hanging by the cauldron that has easily become his favourite for the night. It’s tight enough that no heat escapes, as soft as Witcher’s clothes can be and most of all, ineffably warm. Unlike his self-esteem, which is dead cold. </p><p> </p><p>“Hide? What do you mean hide?” </p><p> </p><p>"Enough. You've been glued to my ass for days and my patience is running out. I already told you, ask Geralt, dammit."</p><p> </p><p>"I just want to know what I have done!"</p><p> </p><p>"For once, nothing. Want to know why? ‘Cause no one here does <em> anything </em>. Not a damn thing."</p><p> </p><p>And yet again, he takes another glance at Jaskier and the way the cotton sticks to the damp skin, the edge under his perky bottom, how it hangs from his hips. A grunt. A frown. Eyes back to the cards. Frustration peaks, but Jaskier is not feeling merciful today. Only and exclusively fed up. That’s what his range of emotion has been boiled down to, even if he pretends otherwise. </p><p> </p><p>"So?"</p><p> </p><p>"Look, your highness, if you want to question someone, become a jailer.” Lambert spats and to let out some tension, snaps the elastic rubber against the arranged decks, then complains some more. “I knew I should’ve stayed on the bloody coast."</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier slips into the two shirts. One’s too thin to account for anything, but it’s soft and keeps the rough texture of the other from irritating his pampered skin. The last step is crucial; his trustworthy winter coat. </p><p> </p><p>A few tears it’s got from walking the Killer but if it got him through a blizzard, a little sneaky wind’s got nothing on it. Like a particularly feathered hen, he ruffles and flurries the fur with quick hands and a body shake and is oh, so pleasurable to get lost within it it should be sinful. </p><p> </p><p>"If you hate Kaer Morhen so much, why go back?"</p><p> </p><p>"Are you deaf?” Lambert asks with a frown and might just mean it with how upset he sounds, but he doesn’t stand up when Jaskier sits by his side. “Leave me alone. This is the last time I tell you."</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, yes. You always say the like.” </p><p> </p><p>"And you always stay. You are the man with the least interest in staying alive I’ve e’er met."</p><p> </p><p>"Precisely interest is what I do not lack. You all will dispatch me by boredom! Worse, by loneliness. If aught, I try to save my poor life by talking to you."</p><p> </p><p>"What a fucking strategy."</p><p> </p><p>"I make do with what’s at hand.” </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier teases Lambert, desperate for a sense of familiarity, but all he gets is Lambert eyeing the drops that dangle from the tips of his hair and a sly one that slides down his face, his neck and his Adam’s apple, then melts into the furs.  </p><p> </p><p>Lambert licks his lips discreetly while Jaskier can’t see him; too busy stealing a sip from a cup that’s not his. However, he made a promise, so he sits back down and even if the cards crinkle under his tight grasp when Jaskier exhales happily, enjoying the excellent ale, Lambert doesn’t yield. </p><p> </p><p>“What would you have me try? Geralt is mad at me; this time he won't even tell me why."</p><p> </p><p>There’s that too, which bothers Lambert nearly as much as having to keep his hands off. Geralt and Eskel, and even Vesemir, have been waiting for something that must not fall short of miraculous with how willing they are to wait for it. Lambert’s not patient, never has been nor intends to be. Neither is he nosy. It all adds to the problem at hand which revolves around Jaskier, like most anything now. </p><p> </p><p>Lambert knows what it’s like to be alone, truly alone, and understands that for a man as prone to mingling as the bard, this silent treatment they’re giving him borders on torture. Given any other circumstances, he’d call it somebody else’s problem but since nobody seems to be keen to solve it and he’s called them cruel precisely for that, he must do something about it or else be cruel himself. He can be that, for sure. And worse. And never before has it bothered him. </p><p> </p><p>He looks to his side, to Jaskier and the way he ever so slightly pouts as his finger traces the rim of the cup. His eyes are sad enough to compete with a newly widowed. It’s never bothered him. Never before now.</p><p> </p><p>"He is not ... angry."</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier turns so fast his neck cracks. An elegant hand darts out like a scorpion’s tail and clutches around Lambert’s hand and the contrast is beyond comical. Sadness runs away from the bright blue eyes and determination overtakes them. Lambert allows his face to show his amusement, which is as cold and cynical as the rest of him. </p><p> </p><p>"Ah! So you do know something!"</p><p> </p><p>"Problem is as old as time, as is the solution. Out of sight, out of mind."</p><p> </p><p>"What does that mean?", Jaskier asks and brings his eyebrows together in ultimate confusion, </p><p> </p><p>Lambert doesn’t know. He truly doesn’t. His guts tell him it’s bad news but that’s about it. It’s not his place to pry about it, is it? If anything, the right thing to do would be to stay as away from anything that’s got to do with Jaskier as possible. The martyr complex does not suit him, and if he has to endure Jaskier's grievances and complaints for much longer he is going to give him another reason to whine.</p><p> </p><p>"It means to leave me alone."</p><p> </p><p>Lambert gets up, tired of starving next to a feast, and makes to leave. But he cannot. Those hands that seem so delicate have the grip of a vulture and those beaten dog eyes stab at him with all their determination... and what can Lambert be expected to do? He is neither a martyr nor a pious man and the only thing that binds him are few words. Yet he tries. </p><p> </p><p>"No."</p><p> </p><p>"What the hell are you doing? Let me go."</p><p> </p><p>"No."</p><p> </p><p>"This is embarrassing.” Lambert clenches his jaw, glares and tries to pull his hand free but doesn’t dare do it with enough force for fear of hurting Jaskier. “Have dignity, at least."</p><p> </p><p>"Dignity is a pain in the ass,” Jaskier retorts right away, brazen.</p><p> </p><p>"Not my problem"</p><p> </p><p>"I'm dying of boredom!"</p><p> </p><p>Truth is not lacking in the words of the Witcher. It is humiliating. It is even worse to be alone. Not that Jaskier has the maturity of a small child - at least, not for this - but being alone with his thoughts is playing tricks on him.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders what he has done to deserve this. So that one day the mornings are beautiful and things make sense, and the snow is a little whiter and the stew tastes better although there is no pepper left, and the next day, nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier wakes up and without further warning, nobody speaks to him. Or look at him. As if he were dead. Worst. Surely if he were a ghost at least they would not ignore him, even if the attention came accompanied by a sword.</p><p> </p><p>The loneliness is bitter and it makes his guts turn. It is Jaskier's weak point. Not being alone in itself, because the life of a travelling bard can be lonely, but <em> feeling </em>. Feeling alone. Worse still, abandoned. And he doesn't know the reason why. </p><p> </p><p>He is not going to cry for that, because above all he has a little dignity and enough maturity to endure the sudden setback, but damn it, what an injustice. How untimely! How out of reach the solution seems to lay; so far out of reach he can’t fathom it. In a way, he fears, he’s always known. What is he to assume if not that Geralt’s grown tired of him? That this was all but a complicated play pretend birthed by mercy. Mercy, however, is not Lambert’s strong suit. </p><p> </p><p>"It's still not my problem", he spats. And he looks away. It’s always easier if you look away, he tells himself. </p><p> </p><p>"And I feel awful. Abandoned."</p><p> </p><p>But looking away does little to keep Lambert from hearing. And as those words reach him, a deep breath leaves him through his nose. He closes his eyes, takes another breath in. The hands with cold fingertips are holding onto him like he’s worth the world and on the sight of the black of his eyelids, the slight trembling those fingers hold becomes too obvious to ignore. </p><p> </p><p>There’s also that implicit trust that is etched into the gentle, unhearable tone with which Jaskier says it as if he’s both embarrassed and afraid. It does things to Lambert, things he doesn’t understand. His hand, on its own accord, returns the tight grip in kind. And it feels so right, he dares to open his eyes again and meet those of Jaskier. Then he knows, the bard is not playing a trick on him. He’s not testing for the way to get Lambert’s guard down so he might strike. Quite the opposite, instead; Jaskier’s hoping Lambert himself won’t attack. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier takes in the silence, the coldness of those amber eyes, then slowly lets go of the grip. He lowers his head. His musician’s hands remain not far from Lambert’s, still curved as if holding onto air. He misses the way the thick fingers reach out right away, and the way they coil and Lambert takes his hand to his chest, as shocked as a kid who figures out fire burns the skin.</p><p> </p><p>With a well-disguised sigh and the firm resolution to give up and surrender to the vileness of those thoughts that pound upon him, Jaskier slowly curls his hands into fists and takes them back on the table, dragging his arms through the wood. Then, there’s a grunt and Lambert drops back down to his side.  </p><p> </p><p>"You are insufferable.”, he spats then pushes Jaskier aside to reach for the jar and get a refill, but the push comes off more so as the headbutt a dog might give a saddened owner. Something meant to cheer one up in a brusque, unspoken manner. It works a little and Jaskier smiles softly and then brazenly and finally shrugs. </p><p> </p><p>"I hear it often."</p><p> </p><p>They just sit there, side by side, with their legs together, their elbows brushing. Jaskier chuckles when Lambert glances sideways at him with the cup to his lips, and arches a bushy eyebrow. He has the same grumpy, cynical, rude face as always but although he growls, disinterested, he neither walks away not moves further apart. </p><p> </p><p>"Well? Are we going to spend the afternoon looking like idiots?"</p><p> </p><p>"I didn't know you could look like something else"</p><p> </p><p>It might be so that the joy of sharing company which isn't forced upon the other half gets to Jaskier's head quicker than wine, but whichever the excuse, he feels bold enough to push back at Lambert with his leg. It bumps into the much more muscular, wider one and definitely doesn't move it an inch. Then the Witcher’s façade cracks for a second and turns into a voracious smile and a sneer, but it is as playful as can be coming from Lambert.</p><p> </p><p>"Little bird, don't tempt me."</p><p> </p><p>With renowned energy, Jaskier claps once and reaches for the deck, then quickly starts undoing Lambert’s work of keeping it tidy and organised. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, except that it’s what he feels like. </p><p> </p><p>"Let's play!"</p><p> </p><p>"Play moneyless gambling, you mean? I thought you had already learned your lesson."</p><p> </p><p>"I learn slowly. Or is it fear that stops you?"</p><p> </p><p>That strikes a nerve. It’s clear on the furrowed brow and the huff, on the crossed arms and the puffed chest. It makes Lambert look even bigger, despite Jaskier having already noticed how much bulkier, broader and maybe even fatter the man is. Intimidating, that’s for sure, to anyone who has the common sense to see that. Not Jaskier. </p><p> </p><p>“Me? Fear you? It’ll be my pleasure to be your ender, pretty boy. Now if you really want to play, I say we put something worth a dime on the line”</p><p> </p><p>“Like what?”</p><p> </p><p>“That notebook of yours. I’ve seen you scribbling all over it. Must have some secrets, don’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier knows his efforts not to betray his own thoughts are futile. Lambert is a Witcher with keen senses and a sharper mind. His ears catch the way Jaskier’s heartbeat flickers and how he gulps. Even if he weren’t a Witcher, there’s that prominent blush that forms so fast on those cheeks, it’s hard not to see. It’s strange, in a way, how it doesn’t make Jaskier look like a child nor naive.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, it makes him as alluring as ripe fruit and Lambert wonders yet again, how far down does it reach? How much deeper can it get? Questions which are forbidden and elicit responses he’s much better at hiding than Jaskier is with his own. </p><p> </p><p>There it is again, that strange hunger that’s warm and lazy and curls around his hands, makes him want to reach for that neck, hold that jaw in his hands, tight and secure. Consume it all and burn together, fight of the winter with the shared heat of their bodies. </p><p> </p><p>No point in denying it, they both think; it’s clear as day in the way Jaskier works twice as hard to appear collected and disdainful, there’s a name that appears over and over on those old yellow pages. Lambert would even dare which one and even if he knows it’s not his own, that’s alright with him. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yes, it does. So who’s afraid now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not me.”</p><p> </p><p>And Lambert corrects him with a tone, not unlike the kind Jaskier’s nannies used to employ. He chooses not to shy away from the menacing way in which Lambert leans forward and looks down at him with his chin held high. It brings them quite close and sparks might </p><p> </p><p>“Not yet.”  </p><p> </p><p>Not another word is shared, only the cards. The game flows quickly into action and Gwent is so usual and easy to play that Jaskier finds it natural to fill the silence with the conversation, even as he keeps half his mind on the game. He has no interest in revealing his darkest secrets to Lambert. For sure if the man learns about his unrequited love then the mocking would come back tenfold. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you truly hate it here?”</p><p> </p><p>Lambert takes a second to scan Jaskier. The bard doesn’t mind it anymore. There’s this idea in his head of which he’s confident that tells him it’s only fair. Whatever life has offered the man so far, Jaskier knows it’s been neither pleasant nor fair, so it’s to be expected that any prying is seen as a threat. As a challenge to the shield that keeps Lambert guarded. That, he has in common with Geralt. The judgment passes and Lambert shrugs, so Jaskier waits for the reluctant answer. </p><p> </p><p>“To an extent. Hate what it represents. Not the people within.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not even Vesemir?”</p><p> </p><p>“You ask hard questions for a game of cards.”</p><p> </p><p>“The questions to get to know a Witcher are hardly ever simple ones.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds like a bore,” Lambert glares at the table. The first round is over, and he’s lost, which makes Jaskier twice the winner in both the games they play. He’s feeling bold and honest, as per usual, so he speaks his mind, the first thought that comes to it. </p><p> </p><p>“Far from it. The sweetest berries are the hardest to pry.”</p><p> </p><p>“I ain’t no berry,” Lambert barks and drops a card on the table. There’s a smirk on his face. It’s born by the thrill he gets simply of disagreeing with someone, but also because he’s got a feeling he’s winning. Then Jaskier lands his own card. Turns out, he is not.</p><p> </p><p>“Nay, you’re not. More like the bird that shits on the branches.” </p><p> </p><p>And Lambert means to be angered that they’re onto the second round and as he must win this time, he’s bound to let go of some good cards, but he isn’t angered in the slightest. Instead he laughs. On one thing he must agree on with Geralt, it’s not a simple deed to disregard the shine of those bright eyes nor the gleaming smile. On anybody else, Lambert would feel disgusted. It would come off as naive, childish. </p><p> </p><p>If he is to be honest, he’d think any grown man to smile like that surely had a life of roses. The thing is, he knows Jaskier’s not. And that turns that annoying smile into an act of rebellion. The strength and will to be oneself and by doing so, be happy, is one Lambert doesn’t have, yet can respect. So what he does is laugh, loud like a crow and with as much finesse, then clap Jaskier in the back once, because the comparison is as clever as insulting and amuses him.</p><p> </p><p>They share a split second of silence that seems to expand in time then snap back like a whip. Jaskier raises his eyebrows once in a gesture between challenge and unanswered question, like one who says "what are you looking at?" but the humorous tone is seen in his smile. A smile that he loses when he sees Lambert's card. It is a tie, at the moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Vesemir, you say?” Lambert answers, leaning back on the bench. Jaskier waits for him to add something else. “I can’t forgive him but I also can’t blame him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Was he the one who found you?”</p><p> </p><p>“He found my father in a nest of nekkers. And then you know how it goes. Bastard made it out alive. Vesemir invoked the old Law of Surprise. Father comes home. His boy is waiting. His boy is taken. The rest is history.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s a sad tale. Children taken from their homes and force to juggle between two fates. They can die young. Or they can live long enough to kill. Jaskier knows better than to go down that road. He’s seen the pain it brings to Geralt and can only imagine that for Lambert, who’s much younger, can only be worse. </p><p> </p><p>“Guess that’s the case for many.”</p><p> </p><p>“For most.”</p><p> </p><p>“What about your mum? Remember her?”</p><p> </p><p>Cat eyes lose their playfulness. They turn to stone once more quicker than Jaskier can say anything to fix it. They stare him down like daggers from above the edge of the weathered cards that crinkle further on a tightened grip.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>And Jaskier won’t. He had meant well by asking, hoping to sway the conversation onto more pleasant memories so that he might get to know the elusive man of snarky wits, but if this is a line Lambert draws for him, then it is a line written in stone for all that Jaskier knows. If he shall not speak about the man in front of him, he can always speak of himself. That’s hardly a burden. Quickly, he regains the glamour and grandiose that’s so his. </p><p> </p><p>“Have I told you about Valdo Marx?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve told the entire world about Valdo Marx.” </p><p> </p><p>“And a fair service that I do by that!”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier already has a knack for rescuing conversations that are easily twisted, which after all are the majority when one talks to a Witcher. In a couple of heartbeats and three more cards thrown on the imaginary board, the conversation drifts towards the fine qualities of a wild night, be it alcohol, sex or a good round of Gwent. All of which they agree, Valdo Marx knows nothing about regardless of his boorish poetry. </p><p> </p><p>With each uncouth comment, childishly disguised in an overflowing metaphor, the kitchen is filled more with the hustle and bustle of a laugh, a push, a dirty joke. It is comfortable, relaxes Lambert's shoulders and unleashes Jaskier's tongue. He is almost so engrossed in telling his own story that almost overlooks a sneaky move. A card is missing on the board.</p><p> </p><p>"You just cheated! I've seen you!", Jaskier shouts, because when he’s having fun, he’s as loud as can be. </p><p> </p><p>"Bullshit. Don't be childish.” Lambert keeps Jaskier from gripping his hand and looking into what’s left of his deck and the hand curls around his wrist but can do nothing to bring him down, which leaves Jaskier nearly dangling from where he grips by the way Lambert raises his hand far up. “You have far too much chest hair for me to buy it."</p><p> </p><p>"So show me your hand, then."</p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t that cheating on <em> your </em>side?” Lambert snickers. He has cheated, of course he has. </p><p> </p><p>How could he not? It’s simply another chance to get Jaskier bothered and blushed and angry, all of which turn Lambert on more than it’s fair. And yet, there’s that young man, nearly crawling into his lap with his eagerness to prove he’s no liar, trying to reach the cards. Lambert swiftly stands up and Jaskier falls on his hands on the bench and squints his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Lambert has left his deck behind, face down, on the table, and thus extends his hands, his empty palms, for the bard to check for himself. Jaskier’s squint accentuates and he pouts in a judging manner, distrustful. Once more, even as it should be childish, it only looks impertinent and cheeky in his face. A challenge of a man he is, slowly tearing down everybody’s defences by sheer power of will. And Lambert? Lambert doesn’t like it easy. He’s one to play. </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing, see?”</p><p> </p><p>“I only know what I saw!”</p><p> </p><p>But Jaskier doesn't trust his shadow when it comes to Gwent. And even less with what they have bet. He sweats cold to think that his little love sonnets could be read by Lambert. Death sounds like a better alternative, come to that.</p><p> </p><p>And because although dying young and beautiful is good for poetry it is not something that Jaskier wants at all, he hurries to get up from the bench and in two strides he stands in front of the Witcher. If he thinks he has not seen that trick before, it is that Lambert takes Jaskier for an idiot.</p><p> </p><p>It is as childish as it is unseemly and it forces Jaskier to cross the fine line between being friends and touching someone's ass. But there is neither doubt nor shame, the only thing there is is absolute panic for the kind of taunts that could fall left and right on him if he were to lose. And he will lose if Lambert has successfully swiped a card.</p><p> </p><p>With hands that are not small nor shy, he grops the wide, firm ass that Lambert's got. It's as if made of stone but there's still fat in there, a fine handful. No hidden card in any back pocket though. Lambert only arches a brow, smiles shamelessly and inches closer to Jaskier with an upwards nod meant to be a challenge. Their bodies are nearly pressed together knee to chest. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier can't help but think it. That man is a furnace. It's wide and thick and right there upon him, like an unmovable tower, one set on fire. Worst of all, it's hard to tell what Lambert's thinking. Even as his face is as expressful as it's ever been the only thing that comes clear is that he's smug about it. The kind of smug that comes with winning war in treacherous manners and that, no, no, that won't do! </p><p> </p><p>“Wandering hands you’ve got there. Might wanna be careful.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, shut it. You won’t have my secrets by force of your perfidious methods!”</p><p> </p><p>On the back of his head, Lambert recalls he had made a promise. However, on the front of his body, nearing the centre, there's not a thought spared for that. The only consideration he has is not to pounce on the bard, lest he run away. He lets him fiddle at his own pace, and ignores the fact that all those hands want is to find the damn card. With confidence and a challenging look, Jaskier's hands reach under the long sleeves, and Lambert raises his palms upward without missing a beat. The broad forearms have more scars and hair than Jaskier would have expected, but nothing that interests him.</p><p> </p><p>With absolute dedication and an almost scientific touch, Jaskier palpates the entire plain that is that broad chest, slides the tips of his fingers through the corners of the clothes, slips them behind the belt and touches the edge between the shirt and underwear looking for a telltale piece of cardboard. Lambert bites into a growl and prevents it from escaping from his throat. He takes a half step forward, almost imperceptible, especially for Jaskier and his absolute dedication to his task. His shallow breaths fall on Lambert’s neck, tickle at his skin and travel as goosebumps down his body and he shouldn’t give no man this power over his body but he didn’t give it, Jaskier just took it on his own right. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a whine of frustration, an angered one, but to Lambert, it’s music. It’s hot, tempting. He bites back yet another growl and clenches his hands so he won’t claw them at those hips.The bard's face dances between concentration and frustration, with beautiful carmine cheeks and frowning, lips in a fine line and muttering curses under breaths. He won't find the letter, it's not there, but Lambert would be stupid to tell him. Oh no. He said he would do nothing, and he is keeping his word.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier has his head down, looking where his hands go, feeling thighs and arms, their strength and their shape and the lack of cards in them. The smell of lemon is intoxicating and invades Lambert's nose where it almost sinks into the crown of Jaskier's head. Among the still damp strands of hair is the tip of one ear. Lambert licks his lips, his gaze darkens. It would be so simple, a little bite. A well said word, a firm hand. How hard could it be? </p><p> </p><p>“Damn it, come on. I know you stole it! Where is it?” </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier’s hands grab tight to the collar and shake him slightly, but that only heightens his desires. They’re so close, as close as lust and anger can be. Not that Jaskier is angry, he’s not. He’s merely frustrated beyond comprehension. To have done so much, so inappropriate and yet, the card is not to be found. If he loses the notebook - he flushes deeper, takes in a shallow breath and his heartbeat quickens; he’d die of shame. Lambert’s not as cunning as he gives himself credit for; Geralt would figure it out right away. </p><p> </p><p>“Where is it, Lambert? Don’t be a prick.” </p><p> </p><p>“Who knows? Not a lot of places you haven’t checked.” Lambert taunts him. </p><p> </p><p>Tempts him. </p><p> </p><p>Right away, Jaskier’s eyes fall on the bulge in his pants. Luckily, the gray gambeson is thick, made of layers of leather and wool and fabric, revealing nothing to the eye. Now, to a hand? That’d be a different story. One that won’t be told today, for a pointed clear of a throat brings their attention to the archway to the kitchen. Lambert frowns, his mirage shatters, but he still spats;</p><p> </p><p>“Care to come later? You’re interrupting us.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me: you have university exams, study.<br/>Also me: but... write tho.</p><p>Oh, well, whatever. Leave me a comment if you think it was worth the procrastination. This was supposed to be part of the chapter before this one, and there's still one last scene to the original layout of the chapter, but sadly I don't have enough time to write. So I thought I'd post it in "pieces". Does that bother you as a reader? Do you think it's strange? </p><p>Thanks for reading.<br/>Remember to clean your teeth and stray hydrated.<br/>PS: I wrote this through the night and morning so apologies for any mistakes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Hummingbirds' soul, sing me a midnight lullaby.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>            If Geralt has to put up with another lecture from Vesemir, a vein in his neck will burst. Like a caged lion, he keeps searching in circles for the right words to say and has come to the conclusion that there are none. With each passing day, he grows more exasperated. As soon as  Eskel says anything about it, however delicately in his approach, Geralt loses his temper and blurts out that it is not his problem. Then slams yet another door and finds a new place on which to go mad slowly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            But there’s enough with that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            So he heads to the kitchen where he knows Jaskier will be bathing at. If it concerns Little Eye, the man deserves to know, and if by telling him the truth Geralt rips him apart then, well, it can’t be worse than what he’s already done. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Choices, it’s always the fucking choices. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Geralt turns the corner to the kitchen, with all his determination and goodwill, and it is as if a bucket of cold water were thrown at him. There, between the fires and the table, Jaskier has his fingers hanging from Lambert's belt, his gaze fixed on ungodly places and a seriousness that has little to do with the suggestive smile that the Witcher carries. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            It is as instantaneous as it is absurd, but Geralt tightens like a bowstring. Grits his teeth and his nostrils flare. He glares. His blood is boiling as if this were a fight. There's nothing to do about the way his mouth turns into a tight line when he notices there is a blush on the bard's youthful face and an unusual rhythm marked by Lambert's heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He clears his throat and they turn to him, startled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Care to come later? You’re interrupting us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Am I?” Geralt asks and it comes out sharp. Unlike his usual coldness, his voice displays without a doubt his shock. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Jaskier leaps away from Lambert and vehemently shakes his head. His eyes wide as saucers and the nervousness that plagues him is unusual and further worsens that furious heat that begins to run through Geralt. Both men speak simultaneously; </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “No, you’re not!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Absolutely.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Jaskier?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “By the love of all that’s holy, we are playing Gwent!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He can't take his eyes off the bard. That itching on his palms is uncomfortable and although he clenches his fists, it does not go away. It is not anger or frustration, and his exasperation doesn’t explain it either. Geralt grunts, frowns at Lambert who shamelessly shrugs. The need to erase that smirk with a firm punch is not new but every time before, Geralt could’ve shrugged it off. Not now. Not with this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “He stole my card!”, Jaskier insists. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He sees the anger in those blue eyes and the accusatory finger-pointing at the other Witcher. He’s telling the truth and yet, it doesn’t matter. It takes a second longer than it should to realize it. It’s an emotion he’s rarely felt. Can count the times in one hand. Jealousy. It makes him even angrier. That’s an emotion for children, not for a Witcher. It’s an insult as well, to Jaskier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Didn’t take you for such a sore loser,” Geralt replies, and he’s trying to be civil. To stay in control as he’s been taught to do. One look at Lambert tells him that’s a waste of time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Ah, but that’s not why.” Lambert denies and that smug grin of his only grows bigger when Jaskier takes in a deep breath, his brows rocketing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He wouldn’t dare,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks. He’s wrong. “It’s more so what he’d lose. A good old bet, you see.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Lambert!” Jaskier hisses. Then he’s quick to gesticulate in a disregarding manner and tell Geralt, “Nothing of importance. I’m sure Lambert is busy -” Then he turns to the other Witcher and speaks through gritted teeth, which further amuses his torturer “- In fact, he’s already </span>
  <em>
    <span>leaving.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Busy? Oh, no, I’m not. Nothing of importance you say?” But Lambert is much quicker than one would think at first sight. He’s a Witcher, after all. All it takes is a twirl and a sneaky hand and from Jaskier’s bag, foolishly left unguarded by the table, he takes the notebook Geralt gifted the bard. “Nothing at all?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Ey!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            If Lambert is fast, Jaskier is not far behind, but it is of little use to him. Carried away by shame, the death that awaits him if just one of those poems were read, pounces on Lambert. And the Witcher, who sees it coming, causes him to stumble in an agile leg movement that knocks his feet off the ground. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Jaskier rushes to the tiles, head first, but a broad arm grabs him by the side and spins him around, and then suddenly he's glued against Lambert yet again. Air knocked out of his lungs. Blush heightens. His hands curl around the strong forearm for support. All his eyes see is the way Geralt’s glare hardens. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Geralt watches it happen in slow motion and there is not a second when Lambert's gaze stops staring at him. It is a challenge, a mockery. Jaskier is now held in his arms, his gaze still confused and still as a statue, relocating. Lambert's arm crosses his chest and he presses him firmly against his body. The broad, calloused hand rests on the pale neck, a thumb resting on where his pulse beats, hectic. And on the other hand, the notebook opens with a blunt movement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Many are the years that Geralt has spent cultivating the art of impassivity. Experience which threatens to turn to dust. He can hear Jaskier's heartbeat and smell Lambert's lust. But he is not an animal as they make him to be, or so he says to himself. And therein lies the danger of corking up feelings. If one, just one, is let loose, it causes a hurricane. Geralt can feel how his body, on its own, tenses, bulks up. It’s a warning that rolls off him easily and one which is dismissed by the other Witcher. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “What was that again, Geralt?”, Lambert mocks him, his silence. Gives him an upwards nod, a dare. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “That’s not yours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “The notebook?...” Lambert grips Jaskier tighter against his chest and whispers against his ear, staring the other Witcher in the eye, resting his chin on the shoulders that are lined with fur. “Or Jaskier?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Lambert,” it’s spat in a warning manner and Jaskier can’t take his attention off Geralt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He’s seen the Witcher be feral. Knows well what he looks like when he’s pissed and this is much the same and yet, not like it at all. It's tantalizing. It’s strange. The way his fists are tight enough for his knuckles to go white, for the muscles in his arms to gain unfair definition at their edges. Those golden eyes hold a handled fury, the last warning - it makes Jaskier shiver, to see that contained power. It's raw and it's right there, and he's trapped between the two. Geralt takes one step forward and Lambert takes one backwards, dragging Jaskier with him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “A beautiful night to read by the fire, isn’t it? Let’s see what the pretty boy’s been writing about” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            All of Jaskier's shock </span>
  <span>— </span>
  <em>
    <span>how dares he!? — </span>
  </em>
  <span>falls on Lambert’s left foot in the form of the small heel of his shoe that digs into the old riding boot and twists. In perfect timing with the stomp, he pulls his head back with all his might, head butting Lambert's nose and mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            The Witcher hisses in pain, lets him go and puts a hand to his lips. He has bitten them and there’s blood. Taking advantage of the commotion, Jaskier snatches the notebook from him and presses it against his chest, protecting it. He stands still, still as a statue, between Lambert and the table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Oh, now we’re playing,” Lambert growls, lust spreading like wildfire and his eyes shine with hunger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Geralt…” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            In two steps, he corners Jaskier. He licks his split lip, collects the blood on his tongue, the familiar taste. Jaskier crashes into the bench and his knees buckle so he falls on his ass and is left sitting there, with the notebook firmly in his hands. Lambert leans over him, puts an arm to either side and his voracious gaze travels from surprised eyes to parted lips. Just a taste is all he wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>—  a taste of every piece of Jaskier.</span>
  </em>
  <span> A steady hand grips his shoulder with enough force to hurt him. It’s Geralt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Step off.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Lambert laughs, short and playful, then raises his hands in surrender, undoing Jaskier’s cage. The bard regains some bravado upon seeing Geralt. Honestly, he’s got half a mind to headbutt Lambert yet again but it’s hard to do so when he’s short of breath, startled to say the least. Cornflower blue eyes look at Geralt and the way the Witcher takes a few steps back in synchrony with his brother. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “I advise breathing if you want to make it to dinner”, Lambert teases Jaskier, giving him a side glance with a looped smile that shows his bloodied fangs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Would love to, but an absolute jerk was stealing all air from my bloody personal space,” Jaskier spats, because his bravado always gets the best of him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Luckily, Lambert means no harm; he looks dangerous, he does, but that’s how he plays. That’s the game he likes, and Jaskier has delivered. A tiny drop of blood gets trapped in the hairs of Lambert’s beard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “What an asshole,” Lambert says as if Jaskier meant someone else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Indeed.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Lambert cackles, his shoulders shake with the strength of it. Shamelessly, he picks at the edge of his pant’s fly and gives the bard a once over that has Jaskier tensing up and squinting at him, holding the notebook tighter. Geralt makes an effort not to react any further or else they’d be having Lambert for dinner. He’s livid and has no right to be, which makes him even angrier. Jaskier is not his nor does he have an interest in claiming a person like property and yet it bothers him all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            His shoulder bumps against Lambert’s when the Witcher walks to the archway with a cocky step and bleeding gums. It’s no coincidence, it’s just another taunt. Geralt won’t fall for it. They look each other in the eye and where opposite sides of their chest brush, Geralt can feel how hot Lambert’s skin is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “You know what they say,” Lambert whispers low enough for only them to hear and looks at Geralt with naughty amusement in his raised brows and alluring smile, a wolf’s smile. “Move your feet, lose your seat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “That’s not your business.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Sure it’s not. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not yet.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            If Geralt had given Lambert a warning, then this is his eye for an eye. It’s fair, he figures. The same way he himself desires something out of Jaskier, something more primal, more physical than they’ve shared, Geralt also knows he is not the only one. He is not blind. With one last chuckle and a mocking bow, Lambert leaves, as does all tension from Geralt’s body.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            His hand extends in an offering that Jaskier takes and he is brought to his feet in a swift pull, but their hands don't part. The grip is secure but gentle. Jaskier forgets his frustration, his rightful anger at being used and then tossed by Geralt. It's far too easy to do so, to forgive the man when he is looking at him with his face of stone but warmth in those eyes, in the swipe of a thumb across knuckles. Jaskier is weak with love and has a greater need to take this chance than he does to recriminate anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He swallows and wonders if his feelings are too obvious in his longing gaze. It matters little when what it causes is for Geralt's free hand to go to his chin and hold it gently. It turns his head from side to side. They both know there are no injuries, that Lambert is not that kind of savage, but they have been apart long enough for every excuse to be a good one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            The tips of Geralt’s fingers lightly touch Jaskier's neck for an instant as they retreat and the chill it elicits travels all the way down to his hands and makes his skin stand on end. Geralt has lost all anger. Calm welcomes him. Great power lies in those blue eyes, more than is fair. Jaskier smiles and taps him on the chest with the notebook in a jesting manner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Don’t go foaming at the mouth now, either. You know Lambert, gets on everyone’s nerves. Bet he was drunk again. He’s got a serious problem… another one more, anyway.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Geralt snorts, lowers his gaze and with the tiniest smile, agrees silently. Jaskier doesn't push it. Fears if he says too much Geralt might leave again, and the very thought pains him - but Geralt is not leaving, not now nor ever. The Witcher will make sure of that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>            Jealous. I was jealous. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He lets out another snort. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is beyond ridiculous.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Eskel has been telling him to act on it over and over again to the point his words are a song stuck in his head. Geralt had come to the kitchen to weave a way to drop the bomb carefully and regardless, now there's a whole other reason to stay. It's hard to untangle his thoughts on his own; they're far too many, too confusing, conflicting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            In Jaskier's presence, they unravel. Only the truth remains, even if he doesn’t dare name it. Love is silly, love’s for children, for humans. He won’t use a word that holds such weight for Jaskier and then have it be a stab to the back. Geralt shakes his head. There are more important matters at hand than whatever his heart desires. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            So he points at the table, slides a hand under it and from a crevice in the old wood pulls off a card that’s been purposefully tucked there. Jaskier's. Then shows it to him, twirling it in his fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “I knew it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Their linked hands break apart when Jaskier’s own goes to grab it and as he does it, and holds that shitty piece of cardboard in his hand, the bard realizes that’s the stupidest exchange he could have made. His palm feels cold; </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>feels cold. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Wicked ways is all he knows, isn’t it?”, Jaskier jokes. He’s a pretty good liar but Geralt knows something is a little ways off. It’s been a strange few days, so he tries not to take it to heart. He can fix this. He has to believe he can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “The more you speak with Lambert, the more you sound like Nenneke.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Oh, gods guard me.” Jaskier laughs. He slips the card into a pocket of his jacket and talks with as many flourishes as his vivid tone requires. “I adore that pious woman, friend of yours, but may I never fall out of love of </span>
  <em>
    <span>light </span>
  </em>
  <span>indecorum. Much to her dismay, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> the spice of life, Geralt!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Sure it is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Silence follows. It’s a tad awkward. They both know Geralt’s been avoiding Jaskier; whether it is worse to know why or not, that’s another matter. Neither of them particularly cares, they’re just basking on each other’s company for as long as they’re allowed. Geralt thinks Jaskier must be angry but is too much of a people pleaser to say it - perhaps he doesn’t think it’s worth the energy. Jaskier, on his side, is far too joyful not to consider what to say and risk it all shattering away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “And well?” he gestures vividly, dramatic. “Came all the way just to look at me like my beloved father, silent and distant, judging from the other side of the table? Next I know, you’ll be claiming me a nuisance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Can’t fathom why anyone would do that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>            Good gods, I’m smitten. How badly I’ve missed him, don’t take him just yet, strings of fate. Please, don’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Thinks Jaskier, with a foolish smile on his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Geralt’s not thinking much at all. Many think his head is a quiet place, as much as he is, but that’s far from true. Something always hunts him, problems lay ahead, his own conscience rarely quiets and he lives on guard, but not now. Not here in Kaer Morhen by Jaskier’s side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            At last, he says the excuse he had come up with to speak with Jaskier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Your hair is too long. Fix it before next practice,” he orders, and takes the scissors from his back pocket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Objectively, it’s true. As much as it’s a problem as well, every time they practice. It’s why he had chosen those words in hopes that even if the bard were angry, he’d agree out of logic to talk to him. There’s no anger, just the cheerfulness and energy that’s so Jaskier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Is it? I’ve grown quite fond of it. Doesn’t it look endearing?” He twists and pulls at the tips of his own hair that curls under his ears. “Eskel said it fit me. Also, your hair is </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>longer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Put it up in a bun then.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Jaskier gasps as if slapped across the face, brings both hands to his chest in commotion, grips his notebook like it’s the one thing that keeps him alive. Geralt arches a brow and the warmth of his eyes spreads to a smirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Never! I’d look like a sweaty cabbage.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            "Then cut it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “And look like an </span>
  <em>
    <span>unkempt </span>
  </em>
  <span>cabbage? What an improvement!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Jaskier.” Geralt frowns in confusion, but chuckles, amused. His smile is wide now with how fervently Jaskier shakes his head in denial, horrified. “We are talking about life or death.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Yes, the life or death of my dignity, on which I shall have the last word.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Great. We can put those words on your tombstone if it pleases you too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Jaskier raises an accusatory finger, ready to refute and quarrel in the name of proper fashion but it’s impossible to fight that gaze when it goes from cold gold to sweet, sweet honey. It’s so rare. Far more valuable than his pride. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Fine.” he sighs, and closes his eyes for a second, as any man is bound to do to accept a fatal fate. He waves the finger non threateningly and eventually drops it, defeated. “But if you do me a disaster, I’ll return the favour in kind.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Better than myself. Can’t see the back of my head, can I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Jaskier grabs the bag, stuffs his notebook, and with all the joy of a child, pats him on the shoulder as he passes him. His humor has become like champagne, effervescent and celebratory. And Geralt, who has yet to get used to the bard's extravagance, blinks a few times, but ultimately snorts and rolls his eyes. Why lie? Opposites attract, it is a fact older than dust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Hop, hop. Hurry up, Geralt. I must be on time for dinner. Vesemir is gon’ hear it, I tell you. That bestiary he gave me is as tedious as attending a mass.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Hmm,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier twists it into whatever fits his growing stream of chatter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>            Geralt remembers a time when Jaskier's modesty, although incomprehensible given his passion for cajoling every neighbour’s daughter, would have made this situation somewhat implausible. The young man is the son of nobles, travels in clothes that require constant care and attention, is in love with bath salts and hot water. Until he decided to follow the ways of a Witcher. His garments and flamboyance remained but his modesty didn’t make it past the week. Then it wasn’t long before friendship could excuse it all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            The Path has no mercy for anyone who sticks to it. Not even for Jaskier. In the end, a river of crystalline water is the best thing that can happen to you when the next inn is very far away and the mud is too close, that is, stuck to your skin. Bashfulness dies on the Path, quickly too, even when it comes to stripping down naked not far from another man. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            So it's not that bizarre, it certainly isn't. What it is, is alluring. Jaskier sits in front of his mirror, brazier nearby, without coat nor tunic or shirt. It is, after all, the sensible thing to do if one is to have their hair cut, or else they'd itch for days with hair-covered clothes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Alright, ready I am, yes, sir. Cut away like you’d do a vampire's head!” Jaskier proclaims, fist in the air in glorious purpose, then laughs at his own reflection and the frown in Geralt’s face. “Just a joke, absolutely don’t do that. Go ahead.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            And Geralt raises his hand with the scissors, holds a soft lock of auburn hair in hand to trim it, but Jaskier warns him right away, twisting in his seat to look up at the Witcher with the seriousness the situation requires, which should be none. When it comes to beauty, however, Jaskier is very concerned. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “But not too short, either. Oh, and don’t cut my ears.” He turns to the mirror again, leans forward and checks himself closely. The lock of hair slides out of Geralt’s grasp the same way an exasperated breath does through his nose. “A little longer at the nape, perhaps? Or the sides? Oh! You could give me a fringe!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Geralt takes him by the shoulder and pushes him back against the chair, straightening him, and grunts as he brushes his fingers through Jaskier’s hair roughly, gathering a new lock. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “I’ll try not to slice your neck by accident, how’s that sound?”, but it only makes Jaskier pout and put his hands in his hips like a disappointed old woman in the village’s market, no eggs left. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>            “Like a terribly poor job of a haircut if that’s where the standards lay at.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Hmm.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Hmm”, Jaskier mocks him, but allows Geralt to start trimming the tips of his hair, staying as still as possible except for his tongue, because when is he not talking? He is giddy, far happier than he should feel. It’s not clever to let it show so easily, but Jaskier is bolder than he is smart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Trimming hair's ends is easier than it had seemed at first and Geralt quickly gets a hang of it. He relishes in the joyful tone that the words carry and how it fills the room with life. A sunray parting the grey clouds, that's what Geralt thinks of. A stream of chatter he never thought he'd miss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Carefully, his fingers untangle the strands, run through them, caress them in an attempt to free all cut hair and let it fall to the floor. He watches Jaskier close his eyes and relax back into the chair, even as he continues talking. It washes away the hardness that so often lingers in his face. There's a comfort that comes with familiarity, one Geralt has always been unused to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He shares that with Eskel but they're usually worlds apart, making a living however they can in a world that slowly but surely grows into civilization and leaves Witchers and the wilderness that used to be behind. Jaskier is a miracle found by accident. Geralt reflects on the months past, on the terrible things he has said at times. How little he's done for the man who backs him unconditionally, even if Geralt does not need it. Maybe that's the point. Maybe that's what there's to learn from meeting Jaskier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Is no longer about what he needs, but what he wants. Jaskier. In whichever way he can. He craves it. It's a kind of pleasurable pain that crawls on his fingertips where they brush against the neck, the sides of that handsome face, when he brushes away the fallen hairs of his fringe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Those blue eyes open, and Geralt is looking at them. He’s not ashamed; he’s far too old to be coy but with age also come heaps of patience. That’s what’s required right now, for this is not the time nor the place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Busy with the staring yet again?”, Jaskier jokes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “I’ve got eyes. They see. Hard to do anything about it”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            The young man huffs and rolls his eyes, then points a finger at himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Could look another way, like say… my hair.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “I could. I won’t,” Geralt answers with honesty. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Cornflower blue eyes open wide. The joyful wide smile turns into a tight, embarrassed fine line and finally into a pout that accompanies a faint blush. Jaskier crosses his arms across his naked chest and Geralt follows the movement. There’s a newfound strength in them, slowly being honed by practice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “You gave me a snip, didn’t you? Don’t try to sweeten the pill.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            That hits close to home. Enough for Geralt to have to look away. He had promised Eskel he'd tell Jaskier today. The Nilfgaardians aren't just winning the war; they plan to rule the Continent. And as it's well known, wherever their domain expands, so does their slave trade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Fen Aspra has been chosen. Its fortress, as it's common for such places, is shielded by the ferocious Velda river on one side and high, sturdy, guarded walls on the other. They're already busy with it, building their new trade post. Thurn was hard to tackle but Fen Aspra borders on miraculous. It’s simply a higher risk that it’s advisable to take. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “On that note, there’s something you must know,” Geralt gets the words past the knot in his throat. He doesn’t want to say it, to shatter Jaskier’s hope. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is always the problem that comes with caring - You can’t protect someone from the world. Damn it. Damn it all. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Bad or good? Although with that tone, that’s a rather pointless question.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Depends on how you want to look at it,” he lies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            That’s precisely the problem. For days, he’s tried to find the silver lining, but all the news bring is dread and woe. And Geralt has thought for many years that the unfairness of the world meant nothing to him anymore. He’s fooled himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>            “Let me guess! You’ve finally fallen in love with my prose and don’t know how to live without it.” Jaskier tries to cheer him up, as he always does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            That’s the burden he’s chosen for himself and it doesn’t feel like one at all. Whatever it is, he thinks, Geralt can surely fix it. He’s always been able to; Jaskier trusts him, and won’t allow the Witcher to feel upset on lesser matters. He can’t know this is, by no means, a problem easily swayed away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Don’t stress it,” Jaskier insists when Geralt’s broodiness doesn’t falter. He’s used to the Witcher calling him out on his childishness. “I do plan on convincing Vesemir to allow me just a tiny, teeny </span>
  <em>
    <span>triumphant </span>
  </em>
  <span>performance! Quite the acoustic that the kitchen has, with the high ceilings. A waste, truly, to use it for cooking. Well, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>whole </span>
  </em>
  <span>fortress is a waste. A crumbling, cold, damp waste. We should send notice to the king of Kaed-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “That’s not why, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts him, a tad harsher than he meant to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He looks down at his own hands which rest on the naked shoulders, brushes away some stray hair with a swipe of the thumb. Anything other than looking at how happy Jaskier is still. He’s gleaming. Shines brighter than summer’s sun, all because Geralt is back by his side. Has </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>back at his side. Geralt is not blind, he knows how much Jaskier appreciates him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            As to why, he can’t understand it, but the bard has screamed it to the winds, sung it in every tavern, proudly proclaimed over and over that they’re the best of friends. That one without the other is as night without day. And how is Geralt to repay him? Shredding his happiness and hopes apart. Like the beast, the butcher he is. It hurts, oh gods, does it hurt.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>            I can’t do this. Not to him. There must be a way. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “A pity!” Jaskier pouts, shrugs, and the strong hands in his shoulders are a grounding, warm weight. “I have a new striking tale, though! I’ve not told you yet because you…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Because you left me alone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He shakes away the thought. It doesn’t matter anymore. “...because I forgot. Now if you’ll let me go, I can fetch the notes and show you. There’s a remarkable </span>
  <em>
    <span>crescendo </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the second verse, you shall see! I’ve named it </span>
  <em>
    <span>holding out for a hero.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He makes a move to stand up but the grip of those hands tightens and pushes him back onto the chair. Geralt sighs that way he does when things go wrong, a defeated frustrated puff of air, with a head that's lowered and eyes that contain anger at the world. Jaskier's frenzied joy staggers for a snippet of time, but he's not so easily deterred. If not him, then who is to push away bad thoughts from the silly, broody Witcher? - why his barker, of course! </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “That’s my name, aye.” Jaskier drops his head back and looks at Geralt face up, tilting the chair on its hind legs. With a cheeky finger, he pushes at Geralt’s wide dented chin in an uplifting gesture. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>the cue for turning unnecessarily serious about something. Like that time with the werewolf when I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>make sure to roll in enough hay so as to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible </span>
  </em>
  <span>to distinguish from the smells of the forest. How you fail to see how genius of a technique that is, I don’t know.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            But his dramatic babbling doesn’t work. Not even as he looks up with bright blue eyes, long lashes, endearing smile. Geralt deeply wishes he could just get lost in that kindness, that brazenness, that man - and never face the reality of the world again. Even if it's a safe place the kind he’s never had, he is a man of honour. Of his word. But it’s too much to ask of him right now. He’s grown weak, he can tell. There’s little to do about it. Not sword nor sign, nor running away can shield him from this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “This is serious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Heartbreakingly so?” Jaskier questions, half-jokingly. He’s trying very hard not to let the sad gleam of those mutated eyes bring him down but he’s starting to piece it all together. This is it. This is why Geralt has been avoiding him. He swallows hard and his tone, although merry, feels alien and forced. “Shall I fetch a handkerchief instead?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “There’s something you must know and </span>
  <em>
    <span>heartbreaking… </span>
  </em>
  <span>might be fitting.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Geralt? You’re making me nervous.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Jaskier leans forward and the front legs of the chair touch the tiles again with a gentle thump. He turns half his body and the hands fall from his shoulders, leaving them bitterly empty. He rests his hands on the round, smooth ears of the chair and frowns at Geralt. His face of stone reveals nothing. It doesn’t show his struggle, his reticence to speak the truth. There’s no trace of his worry or his care, the desire he has to cradle that face in his hands so that he might catch tears when they fall, perhaps bring some comfort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Geralt, say something for fuck’s sake,” Jaskier spats. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “It’s your back,” Geralt lies. He’s lucky that a monotone voice is what he’s known for, or else it would have been obvious that something’s not quite right. That his words are a lie. Jaskier arches a brow, puckers his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “My back?,” he asks, disconcerted. It makes no sense. Then again, Geralt rarely does. He follows trains of thoughts that Jaskier has long given up on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Yes. It’s… knotted. Badly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Is it, now?” Jaskier’s face is of utter confusion. He can’t fathom how that’s such a big deal. He brings a hand to his own shoulder, squeezes. It’s not untrue. “Well, I guess just because I got used to the pallets doesn’t mean my body has.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “You shouldn’t sleep there,” Geralt goes on with his lie. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Inside his head, the hurricane tears everything apart. This isn’t right. This is selfish and dangerous. He’s not made to have feelings, it never plays out right. That’s what he’s telling himself right now, that loud annoying voice in his head screaming. They make him too weak, too afraid to do what must be done because it might cause harm to a loved one. It’s a blessing and a curse and too much at once for Geralt; he’s not used to this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “What a great idea!” Jaskier chuckles, sarcastically, a stranger to Geralt’s racing thoughts. He stands up and grabs his clothes, rubs away stray hairs and starts to put them on. “What would I ever do without you? I’ll exchange it for the fantastic bed that… Oh, wait... I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>have one.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Then we’ll share my bed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Time stills. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Maybe even snow stops falling on the fastly darkening night, as perplexed as the bard himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jaskier reasons, more so to himself, to his suddenly restless heart, to the jump it makes within the confines of his chest. He makes a point out of not looking at the reflection on the mirror where Geralt still has his gaze riveted on his face. “It wouldn't be. No, sir.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            To collect his thoughts and quiet the image that the proposal elicits, Jaskiers leans on the shelf ledge and approaches the mirror until all it reflects is him. It is not a masterpiece but hair will no longer fall on his eyes between lunge and parry, and if there is any rebellious lock, poorly cut, it is understandable. He spins around on his heels, blinks exaggeratedly and smiles coyly like a lady in court. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “So, how is it? Pretty as a picture?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Geralt shrugs. It’s a stupid question; Jaskier is naturally beautiful. A poor job of a haircut can’t undo that. However, upon closer inspection - better, for sure, than that cracked mirror can offer- there’s a detail that draws the attention of mutated, sharp eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            With a quick hand, he places his calloused palm against Jaskier’s cheek, which is warm and a tad rosy. The library always heats up fast, he thinks. Maybe it’s really a good idea that Jaskier sleeps in there no more, before the man comes down with a fever. It’s a poor excuse for his cowardice. His thumb slides across Jaskier’s lips, taking a few hairs that made a pretend of a prepubescent, sparse moustache, then linger for a second at the other side of the mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Better now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He should take his hand away. It’s slowly turning a grooming gesture into something else. Air is thickening. The coals seem to burn more fiercely for a split second. Jaskier holds his breath because if that sigh escapes him, not only will Geralt necessarily see it, since he is standing right there in front of him, but he thinks that a few other words will leave his lips too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Words written in an old notebook, words he had meant to keep a secret. When he looks at Geralt this close, to the scar under his eyes, the intensity in his gaze, that rough stubble around think lips, it seems a risk worth taking. After all, it’d simply be the tiniest bow forward and their lips would meet. A tongue darts out to wet his own in an instinctual move. Golden eyes follow it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            It’s deceiving the way Geralt seems collected. One would easily think there’s no reaction from him. But that’d be a lie. Just as it's subtle, it's also telltale, that way his eyes travel frantically, just like his thoughts. The rosy cheeks are accentuated, and Geralt notices it. Note the breath that escapes very slowly, carefully, from those slightly split lips. He knows that Jaskier's palms are sweating, because he always flutters his fingers when it happens, and Geralt hears the sound. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            And it's kind of ironic how Jaskier stiffens, nervous, confused, fervent when the hand on his cheek goes down his neck and ends up where his shoulder is born. It is ironic because Geralt relaxes. Imperceptible but true, as his shoulders drop, his breathing deepens, his mind becomes silent and in the white noise all his attention is focused on softly parted lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Ey! Jaskier!” the door is slammed open, ricochets against the wall. Eskel has pushed it with his legs. He freezes at the entrance, then lets out a soft, repented “Fuck.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Eskel!,” Jaskier tries to say with confidence, but it comes out strangled. An embarrassing squeak. Geralt takes his hand away, hides both of them in the pockets of his pants. The thoughts come back, his throat feels dry, his head dizzy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What was I…? Was I…? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Uhm,” Eskel hesitates, gulps, then points at his back with a thumb. “Vesemir said you wanted to talk to him? He’s doing dinner, called for you… if you’re not… </span>
  <em>
    <span>busy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “At last!,” Jaskier shouts, his voice utterly out of his control, as is his heart and his dignity. He marches out the room like a man who goes to war for the first time with a strut, far too much energy. His hands catch the huge winter coat which he drops it on his shoulders, starts buttoning it up as he screams down the stairs; “Vesemir! You and I have to talk, you did me dirty! ” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Hmm,” Geralt growls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>            Eskel’s repentance quickly turns into amusement. His brother is embarrassed.</span> <span>For fuck’s sake, was that even possible? It’s faint, it’s a subtle dark red on the very top of each cheekbone, but there’s no denying the fury and frustration in Geralt’s face. That tight line his lips turn into, the flared nostrils, the glare. The way he pushes Eskel with his shoulder when he passes by, enough force to push him against the wall. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “That better be one fucking king-worthy dinner.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            There’s a loud laugh at his back, and then the door closes and Eskel catches up with him. When he’s angry, he’s been told he fasten his pace. He’s stopped by a hand grabbing his shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Have you? Is it done?” Eskel looks at him with a smile but his eyes display his concern.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Tonight. I’ll tell him tonight,” he assures, looking away from the scowl that forms in that scarred face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Geralt, it’s been days,” Eskel reproaches him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “Tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Geralt agrees with a nod, and the hand lets go. They make their way down the stairs, their stomachs growling at the smell of freshly baked bread. The sight of Jaskier overpowering Vesemir with a never-ending monologue welcomes them to the kitchen. The old Witcher is left with nothing to defend himself but a spatula on one hand and an old rag in the other. Mute, conquered by the dramatical way in which Jaskier’s mighty fury plays out. Lambert, leaning against the wall, can barely contain his laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            “... Do you genuinely think any one </span>
  <em>
    <span>poor soul </span>
  </em>
  <span>on their right mind can read through that </span>
  <em>
    <span>nonsense</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Where in the whole continent are the </span>
  <em>
    <span>commas</span>
  </em>
  <span>, uh? Did he bloody eat them?” Jaskier chases Vesemir around the kitchen, brandishing the offending book in hand. “And what about the structure, what have you to say about that? Sentences the length of paragraphs, Vesemir. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Paragraphs</span>
  </em>
  <span>! What am I? A martyr? Your pupil to torture? No, no, no. Don't look away from the damage you're done. It's been three days and I still have nightmares!...”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <span>            …</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Thick walls built at the dawn of civilization, a time when Witchers made way for men across a monster-ridden continent, make Geralt’s small bedroom. Reliable, grey stones embedded with marine fossils reveal the sea that used to be at the foot of Kaer Morhen. A lone lit candle gives the slightest light in the absence of windows. With his cat eyes, the Witcher sees the rough blankets, his swords hanging on the wall, his armour stacked in one corner. Not much else to see, a small limping table, a couple of old books, Roach's saddlebags, water in a bowl for shaving in the mornings. There isn’t room for much more either. And then, there’s Jaskier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            The bed is not for two, even less so for two grown men, and had made it known so by a loud creak when Jaskier had all but dropped dead at it. It had been quite a boisterous night, playing cards over mugs of ale, feasting on Vesemir's cooking, leaving all duties aside and being a family - a loud, dysfunctional, wild pack of wolves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Now there's a price to pay for the partying, which is deep deep slumber. Jaskier has fallen prey to it and, as per usual, is drooling over where he sleeps. He had been a little nervous, fidgety, and laughed too loud; nothing stealing Geralt’s pillow and hugging it for dear life couldn’t fix.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Geralt, on the other side -quite literally, for they're laying there face to face so they may fit-, can't find enough silence in the dead of night to fall asleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He awaits for something, some kind of revelation, perhaps for the right thing to do. Once again, the choice to make is unclear. What he should do, can do and wants to do intertwine in absolute chaos which is kept at bay sorely by the soft puffs of air that leave Jaskier's parted lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Once Jaskier learns the truth, he might feel betrayed. Geralt might not be able to keep his promise to save Little Eye; three people is not enough for that, not anymore. And he thinks, he’s been selfish for days as he’s been today. For months, if he’s honest, by allowing Jaskier to make up excuses for his lack of empathy, his harsh words. To let him follow the Butcher of Blaviken, singing enough praises so as to turn him into the White Wolf, it’s Geralt’s greatest sin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            One look, just one close look, he’s taken to that golden heart, that hummingbird soul, the strength of the mother sea contained in bright blue eyes - and he’s decided it’s his for the taking. That Jaskier is his friend, his travel companion, his confidant. And yet, that’s not enough. Well, if he is to be no more -if that’s what destiny wants of Geralt, that torture- then he’ll endure it with one last selfish act.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            His fingers play with the frayed edge of the blanket around Jaskier's shoulders. They climb slowly, carefully, reverently, up the pale neck until they touch the softness of his unbearded jaw. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            A lock of chestnut hair is placed behind an ear, another brushed away from where it covers closed eyes. Long lashes cast tiny shadows on cheeks under the flickering candlelight, make a dance of dark pointy shapes across the pale skin. The back of a finger grazes the tip of that nose and goes up the bridge to the forehead, where his fingers spread out and gently card trough the fringe, pushing it aside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Jaskier's nose twitches endearingly, tickled by the touch, and the bard scoots even closer with a louder puff of air. Geralt's hand leaves his face and travels way down until it rests on Jaskier's hip. He holds to it without force, eyes at the serene face with devotion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            The hand that was under his own face, serving as pillow, Geralt removes. He makes sure that his movements don't trouble Jaskier's sleep, for his folded arm now lays between them when he reaches out with his now free hand. His thumb goes to one side of that rounded chin, and the rest of his fingers to the other, so that Jaskier's chin is perfectly fit in the angle his thumb and index form. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Not a sound is made when he leans forward, closes the gap between their mouths. His thin lips brush against Jaskier's plumper ones and the soft kiss drags the upper one upwards a tiny bit. The friction between their mouths is as subtle as maddening.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            A prudent tongue licks with its tip the fuller bottom lip, feels the edge of the front teeth for a second before Geralt closes his lips again, giving the intoxicating mouth another peck. His eyes have closed on their own accord. A warmth like none before spreads through him, makes him smile in ways he didn't think he remembered how. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            Nothing else matters. Only Jaskier. Only this - this tiny act of rebellion, of selfishness, of unadulterated pleasure found in the simplest, most innocent act of love. He presses his forehead against Jaskier's with enough care so as not to wake him. The hand on the chin swipes a thumb across the lips he feels he's already been departed from for too long. But there's a fine line drawn there; if he hasn't crossed it yet, that is. He lets out a shaky breath that crashes like gentle waves lapping at the sea shore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>            I meant to tell you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Geralt thinks,</span>
  <em>
    <span> meant to tell this that I feel, as I meant to tell you awful news. I must now accept this is not for me to take unless it’s offered, but I hope you could understand how deeply I crave it. I wish it were for me Jaskier. I wish it were. At the very least, I’ll do my duties tomorrow, and tell you about Fen Aspra. But tonight… let me have this one last time. Let me have what is not mine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>            He closes his eyes tighter so no sadness can overtake them, and closes the gap between their mouths yet again. Intoxicatingly sweet is the taste of those lips upon his, alluring in their colour as well, in their very shape and warmth. </span>
  <span>Geralt's brow furrows with the endeavour of pulling away and his top lip catches Jaskier's bottom one, pulls it down a bit - lastly, Geralt envelops it with his own, never forcefully, never harshly, he nibbles on it lightly. And he lets go. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Listen up y'all. I'm weak. I'm hurting. I might have needed these hours to study molecular biology of plants but goddamit ain't no silly photosynthesis filling me with this much S O F T N E S S.</p><p>Fuck I hope you liked it 'cause I really did. If you'd let me know in a comment, even if it's to say you freaking hated it, I'll forever owe you my firstborn. </p><p>And now- back to studying.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Your eyes, there's so much they hold.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Falling asleep was relatively easy. Summoning the powers of ancient experience, that which he earned running away from his father, teachers and angry husbands - if we are to look at it in chronological order-, Jaskier had simply thrown himself onto the bed, hugged a pillow tight enough to constrict airflow and let the exhaustion do the rest.  </p><p> </p><p>This hard-earned ability to shrug off drama and stress had come in handy to ignore the hammering in his chest at the mere thought of sleeping side by side by his beloved muse. A simple act, albeit not new, that now gained a whole new dimension with the realization of his own feelings. When morning came, however, he was left to face this ever growing nervousness.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen closely, you dim-witted twat,” with a daring finger, Jaskier threatened his own shattered reflection, mirror in hand, pacing up and down the row of bookshelves, “the time for cowardice now lays behind! Such feeble thing shall not deter us from the pursuit of love, no, it won’t. Whatever am I supposed to do, me, a poet, smitten, lovesick fool, if not endure the trials of the heart? And I will succeed! Do you hear me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Loud and clear.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my-, fuck!” Jaskier put a hand to his chest, smacking himself in the chin with the mirror, tripped on his feet and used his other hand to get leverage against the wall. “You <em> Witchers </em>and your soundless walking.” </p><p> </p><p>“For a man as prone to trouble as you’re known to be, you live rather unguarded.”</p><p> </p><p>“What can I say, Vesemir? The kind of trouble that chases me tends to be red-faced, hollering expletives, a hysterical wife not far behind. Not precisely a quiet type of threat.”</p><p> </p><p>“Would do you good to change that,” the old man reasons, keenly aware of the dangers that awaited them when spring came to which Jaskier remained ignorant. He nears a bookshelf and grazes the spine of the books with his fingers, then stills them once they reach the right name. “Here it is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, my records are impeccably made.” </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier lets his hummingbird heart calm down, brandishes a bright smile and exchanges the mirror for three volumes, thick, leather-bound. They detail the geography of the south, a mere coincidence that they match in topic those that Vesemir looks for. <em> Geography of the southern rivers and the most revered castles that extend at their feet </em>. Rather useful whether you plan to sing of noble maidens trapped in long, gloomy towers or if you’d rather breach the defences of said fortification. </p><p> </p><p>“Why the rush, I wonder?” Jaskier asks, following him to the door “I had come to the conclusion that mornings were for less strenuous readings.”</p><p> </p><p>Vesemir had ordered those books for when the afternoon came. Jaskier, whose discipline was directly tied to the level of vigilance looming over him, had lost the thread responsibilities as soon as a foot was set in the library. He had even left the little note with the written titles behind, unread. Seeing the frown that forms on that wrinkled face makes him confused. As any good gossiper is obliged to do, he doesn’t hesitate to inquire.</p><p> </p><p>“Now what’s with the scrutiny? One would believe I asked a foolish question.”</p><p> </p><p>“Geralt talked to you last night. You know why.”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier, believing Vesemir to be referring to his back pain, promptly answers with a hand to his shoulder, rubbing at it and rolling it as they walk out the door. The Witcher is already reading the index of the first book but out of the corner of his eye, he studies closely to every minute movement of the other man. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s painful, I won’t deny that. In a way, I feel like I’ll never be the same again,” Jaskier jokes, exaggerating with a feisty tone. He quickly outdistances Vesemir with his jubilant strides. The sun shines quite bright this winter morning and sitting by the balcony like a lazy cat is as close to heaven as any mortal can be. </p><p> </p><p>Vesemir was aware Jaskier loved to perform as much as he loved to sing and boast, but never before would have he thought a man could be this deceiving. With a smile as bright as usual and the face of a night of peaceful sleep, Jaskier looks far from someone who’s been dealt a lethal blow to their hopes and dreams. </p><p> </p><p>Oblivious, Vesemir blames the assumed pretense on Jaskier’s altruistic soul. He can be many things but at the end of the day, he’s the kind of man who’d keep the spirits up amidst a rainstorm even if the ship had already sunk to the bottom of the ocean and every crew member had been chewed twice by the sharks. </p><p> </p><p>They get into the routine easily. Vesemir is, without a doubt, a man that Jaskier knows little about and even so, he would trust him with his life if necessary. It is easy to be disconcerted by Vesemir, to feel out of place in his presence. The man is taciturn but under his seriousness, there is an undoubted dedication to those whom he considers his family. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier would not dare count himself among them but he wants to believe, and he is not mistaken, that Vesemir and he would risk their neck for the same person. That is, without a doubt, something that unites them without need for many words. That and their shared appreciation for proper literature, which they often debate about. Today, however, Jaskier has spent enough minutes talking to himself in the mirror to gather up the courage for this which falls far from their usual topics. </p><p> </p><p>"Vesemir?"</p><p> </p><p>"That's what they call me," answers a subtly mocking tone. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier raises his head from the book between his legs where he sits under the archway. His fingers nervously play on the edge of the page and his mouth feels pasty. Tentatively, he turns to look at Vesemir. The man is sitting with one ankle resting on the opposite thigh, laying his weight against the back of the chair, chin slightly up, his eyes fixed on the map that he observes conscientiously.</p><p> </p><p>"You see, I am writing my next masterpiece, and it is, as might be expected, about Geralt, for I owe him my poetic praise, my services, and my fame."</p><p> </p><p>"So I had heard," answers Vesemir, not a stranger anymore to Jaskier’s random sprouts of curiosity. In a way, he finds them endearing, all though most of the time, it’s simply a pain. Still, he’s willing to answer as long as the question is one worth getting into a discussion about.</p><p> </p><p>"And this doubt arises in me that must necessarily be resolved for the sake of these half-done verses."</p><p> </p><p>"Which is?"</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier can count on the fingers of his hand, and he would have five fingers left over, the times it has been difficult for him to speak his mind in this life. It is natural for him to overshare, many times without even a thought spared for it, and yet in a matter of days, the world has been turned inside out like a sock. It seems that anything he says could lead him to the gallows, metaphorically speaking. <em> But what even </em> , he thinks, <em> can’t win the war without going to battle, so it's time to gather the last scoop of courage. </em></p><p> </p><p>"Has Geralt ever loved?"</p><p> </p><p>Silence stretches. His fingers unconsciously crumple the page where they turn into a fist. </p><p> </p><p>"Is that what you waste your time on?” Vesemir’s eyes rise from the southern slopes and mountain ranges painted in ink and with an expressionless face, he still manages to convey judgment.<em> To the gallows, it is, then, but not without an answer. </em>“A love ballad about a Witcher? Do you want to be hired or be laughed at?"</p><p> </p><p>"That is where you err, Vesemir,” Jaskier boldly corrects him and yet his nervous fidgeting with the poor book in his hands betrays his cheerful attitude. “Your cynicism is well justified and I often sin from the same, but poetic license, dear sir, works miracles in a drunken tavern."</p><p> </p><p>"Beware of so many miracles, if they consecrate you as a saint you will have to stop feasting between the sheets, and isn’t that half your fame?"</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier laughs, throws his head back for a second. Vesemir is not incorrect but those days now feel far behind, even if that’s not entirely true. He understands it as a joke, as sharp and rude as it is, and answers in kind. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh no, I would prefer death,” he brings his hand to his chest, “I am a pious and humble man, I do not need to be consecrated."</p><p> </p><p>"Subtle difference between needing and wanting.” Vesemir reasons and his gaze falls back on his task at hand. Jaskier, however, can’t shake off the feeling of being studied. </p><p> </p><p>"I don't want it either, no. There are, however, other things I do want."</p><p> </p><p>"Do not play the riddles with me, young man, I already know them all,” Vesemir warns him. And there it is, Jaskier’s sentence, whether it brings him to the gallows or not. “You are in love with Geralt and that is a miracle in itself, perhaps the only one on this earth that matters to me in the least."</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier’s chest constricts and his air runs out when in his eagerness to not seem shocked, he cuts his finger off the edge of the page and the book almost falls out of his lap. He swallows and his eyes nervously try to read the face of Vesemir, who has not yet looked up, to no avail.</p><p> </p><p>"You baffle me,” he says with honesty, “Are those words of encouragement or discontent?"</p><p> </p><p>"They are words. Nothing else. The mere reality. How they make you feel is out of my jurisdiction."</p><p> </p><p>"I see it fair. And then, does my question deserve to be answered?"</p><p> </p><p>"It does,” Vesemir agrees and flips to the next page. Jaskier takes in a deep breath, stills himself for something, he’s not quite sure what.  “Geralt has never loved anyone, not in the way you imply. Neither will he, not as men do.”</p><p> </p><p>“How so, then?” </p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure it’s wise to know?” </p><p> </p><p>Vesemir, at last, closes the book and leaves but one finger between the pages so he might give all his attention to Jaskier. This situation so requires and he must look this man in the eye to see what truly matters - and easily enough, he does, for it’s written all over Jaskier’s face. If there were any doubt, Jaskier dispels it with conviction. </p><p> </p><p>“I am sure it’s the only way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then you merit to know as much as I do,” he nods. “Geralt is practical in the matters of the flesh. Wherever it comes from, whoever it comes from. Other days, if money can buy release, there’s no point in turning up the nose at it. Some may call it coldhearted but he is as polite and gentle as can be, more than any whore is used to.” </p><p> </p><p>“But that is not love-” Jaskier frowns but goes quiet when Vesemir raises a hand and then shrugs slightly. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not. It is, however, a fair warning. An advice to keep an eye out for the details.” </p><p> </p><p>Vesemir lowers his hand and decides that if he has a part to play in this, on whether it turns into a blessing or yet another curse to befall Geralt, then the right choice is to speak the truth. He sees in the blue eyes too; that is all Jaskier asks for. </p><p> </p><p>“His love, if such a thing exists and deserves to be called so, won’t bring you bouquets, won’t cover you in praise or parade you around like a trophy. It won’t be about passion and ownership and hunger. All though all those things may be present at times, the core of who Geralt is dictates the way Geralt can love.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know who Geralt is,” Jaskier assures and finds that the words sound right from his mouth. He is not lying. “At least, I know enough to claim to know him and not have it be a lie.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am aware, which is why I call this feeling of yours nothing short of miraculous.”</p><p> </p><p>“Make no mistake,” Jaskier shakes his head firmly, denying the implications that hang in the air. </p><p> </p><p>Vesemir could even let himself smile, perhaps a tad sceptical, in the face of such youthful vigour. It’s been ages since he’s seen love bring anything but woe and even if he doesn’t discard the possibility just yet he does feel moved by the strength with which Jaskier speaks. It’s a resolution found only in those who can look danger and uncertainty in the eye and grow braver by it. That is what it takes to love Geralt, and that is, precisely, what Jaskier has.  </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier, Vesemir thinks, is regarded as a coward because he is disgusted by violence, runs away from it, and yet, he is far braver than many men who brandish around their swords to make up for their lack of wits or noble heart. </p><p> </p><p>“Your words insinuate a great insult, which I would have never expected to hear from you of all people. Geralt is not hard to love; not harder than anybody else.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not true nor false, but simply your opinion, as I have mine.”</p><p> </p><p>For he’s seen how Geralt can be, how he hides from the risk of laying his soul bare in the eyes of somebody else. It’s not a pretty thing to look at. Not even poetry could save it. Vesemir has the certainty this time is different, a knowledge that the years have given him. Jaskier is a poet, that’s true, but he’s so much more. At the very least, he might be all Geralt needs. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Vesemir opens the book again and sets his attention on the Velda River, its every curve and turn. In the end, as a bitter taste tangs his tongue, this might all amount to nothing. His good humour falters, but if Jaskier can stay strong in the face of this terrible news then at the very least, he ought to do the same. Little does he know Jaskier is still oblivious to the truth; Geralt hasn’t said a word about it. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re a strange man, Jaskier, you are. And for that, I’m grateful.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’ll take that for a compliment, then. Whatever happens, thank you, Vesemir,” Jaskier says, his smile is warm and his eyes show his determination. He’s been meaning to tell him for a while now. After all, this Witcher allowed him into his home, his family, and even more so pledged his help to a cause that’s not his, all out of mercy. “For everything.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t, not yet.” Vesemir says sharply, his finger tracing the Fen Aspra fortresses. “But while you can, do what your heart desires. That’s my answer to your question.” </p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>“Damn, remind me never to let you cook again. What a waste of trout.”</p><p> </p><p>Eskel leans back on the bench, huffs and pushes the plate aside like a small child. It is full of fish-bones with pieces of meat still attached to them, ripped from the trout in a bad way, without care. Lambert is still battling his own lunch and losing at it. He responds with a harsh tone, speaking around a mouthful and trying pointlessly to separate fish-bone from the meat with his tongue. </p><p> </p><p>“If you think that after spending the morning fishing I was going to dedicate myself to cleaning your fucking trout, you’re delusional.” </p><p> </p><p>“No shit. We all know you never finish what you start.” Eskel mocks him, then stretches like a cat, hands high above his head, back curving. </p><p> </p><p>Lambert grunts and throws whatever little dignity he might have left out the window, plunging his fingers into his mouth in search of that little pointy bitch that keeps jamming at his gums and won’t let him swallow. Jaskier pulls a face of utter disgust and resolves not to puke -not now that he’s managed to clean the trout that Lambert had so helpfully destroyed in his attempt to cook it. </p><p> </p><p>He hears Geralt’s chuckle and looks up from his plate. The man is looking at him from the other side of the table, amusement pulling the corner of his mouth, and gives a little upwards nod when their eyes meet. It’s a bit awkward but quickly dissolves away into the fat, sluggish warmth that’s taken over them and the kitchen. Jaskier nods back. </p><p> </p><p>Today is a lazy day and the feeling sits heavy in their bones. Their bellies are full and their every move slow and idle. Cards lay on the table, hidden under a tray of overly grilled fish. Vesemir has brought his lunch upstairs so his pupils have taken the chance to skip proper manners like the unruly children they are at the core. Lil’ Bleater sleeps by the fire, a treat it rarely gets, and Eskel, who’s taken his boots off, strokes its wool with a foot, looking down at his goat as he scratches his ribs. He seems to be mulling a thought over. </p><p> </p><p>Geralt starts piling the plates and mugs and when he reaches for the ale, Lambert snatches it away and glares at him, getting an eye-roll in response. The youngest Wolf goes to take yet another sip from it but Jaskier elegantly places his fork, trout meat pierced by it, in between the edge of the jug and Lambert’s mouth, effectively stopping him.</p><p> </p><p>“Enough with the ale, you’re a Witcher, not a drunkard,” Jaskier says, and even he can tell he sounds like a pissed-off mum. </p><p> </p><p>Eskel snorts, his absent gaze focusing back and eyeing at the way Lambert’s bushy brows furrow and his mouth turns into a tight line. Geralt, who lazily scrubs at the plates he’s gathered, rolled-up shirt and elbows-deep in the cauldron, sitting in the tiny stool, shakes his head. </p><p> </p><p>The silence stretches for a few seconds where Lambert and Jaskier have a staredown and Lil’ Bleater complains loudly, forcing Eskel to restart his massage on its flank. The youngest Witcher finally looks away but only to, immediately and incredibly fast, bite the end of the fork and steal the trout.</p><p> </p><p>“Ey!” Jaskier shouts, opening his eyes wide. </p><p> </p><p>He tries to smack Lambert up the head with the fork, laughing. His wrist is caught in a broad, rough hand that twists it until Jaskier is contorting in the bench, trying not to fall and also keep his arm unbroken. Lambert is looking down at him sideways with feigned disdain, a grin betraying his thoughts as he drinks some more ale. </p><p> </p><p>“Let the bard go, asshole, we can’t buy another until spring comes,” Eskel jokes, gesturing at Jaskier as if he was but another piece of food. Lambert shrugs noncommittally, with a head tilt that means he finds the reasoning fair and lets Jaskier go as he stands up, jug in hand.</p><p> </p><p>From where he’s laying belly-up on the bench, dishevelled hair and short of breath after his unsuccessful attempt at breaking free, Jaskier threateningly points a finger at Lambert’s back. Geralt looks at the people he’d take an arrow for and thinks he has terrible taste when it comes to relationships and yet he wouldn’t have it any other way. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got a drinking problem!”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re the only one who sees it as a problem,” answers Lambert, turning at the archway, heading out the kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier huffs a breath, defeated, and just lays at the bench more comfortably, one arm and one leg dangling on each side. He hears Lambert whistle on his way up the stairs, a poor rendition of Toss a coin, horribly out of tempo, and chuckles. <em> Asshole. </em> Feeling watched, he looks to his right and even if there isn’t much the table isn’t covering, he can see that scarred face peek above the edge. </p><p> </p><p>Eskel must be leaning forward now, sitting properly, and Lil’ Bleaters new blaring protest confirms it. The goat seems to be the most outraged of them all, denied proper worshipment as any good pet is owed. Perhaps immune to the indolent feeling that bathes the kitchen, it wiggles its cute little butt out the kitchen as well. </p><p> </p><p>“Ey, now’s no time to sleep,” Eskel warns him. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier looks up at him with half-closed eyelids. The Witcher arches a brow, tiny smile on his lips, when the bard grunts and closes them tight, puckers his pretty lips, as if that would vanish Eskel away.</p><p> </p><p>“Why not? I say it’s a great time to do nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>“We have plenty to do. So come on, get up. We’re leaving.”</p><p> </p><p>“Leaving? Where to now?” </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier feels as if he has been nailed to the bench. He’d rather not move at all. The way the flames warm the sole of his feet through the boots is divine and he’s got half a mind to fall asleep. His eyes follow Eskel as he cracks his knuckles and shakes his head like a wet dog to free himself from this tricky slumber that sneaks upon them. Maybe it’s a good idea to stand up or else he’ll just throw his day away and it’d be a pity with how nicely the sun shines, creeping in through the large windows. </p><p> </p><p>While Eskel puts on his boots, Jaskier yawns and sits up, rubbing one eye. He’s missed the simplicity that life can offer, such as resting in welcomed company. He walks over to Geralt without giving it much thought, he just gravitates towards him. It’s always been that way.</p><p> </p><p>The white hair falls on his wide shoulders but his face is absent of strands that can cover it, an old strip of cloth picks them up at his crown. At the corners of his mouth there are small grooves, hardly visible, and on his forehead a shy hint of wrinkles. It is his gaze that has always made him look older. Always cold, condescending, wary. The look of a man who trusts no one, not even himself. But today, Jaskier sees none of that. Where is that taciturnity, that reluctance? It seems to be gone. Jaskier silently hopes it will never come back. </p><p> </p><p>There is no doubt that he prefers the softness with which those eyes look at him now. Details, Vesemir had said. But there is a great danger there, in the way that blue and gold face each other, how they try to speak without saying anything. It’s not mere detail; it’s a gargantuan. Words are dangerous, they are treacherous. Luckily, when silence fills their chest with heavy breaths, words aren’t needed. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Details.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>But the eyes see what the heart wants and Jaskier has always wanted many things, every thing that catches his eyes. And in turn, he has never truly wished for anything before, not with this blazing desire. Does it show, in the blue of his gaze? Can Geralt see the way he could make Jaskier come undone with just a word, a gesture? Does he care? </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier tries to look past the flesh and unto the very thoughts of the man he loves, even if he’s no mage. He finds a conflict is hidden in that face. There's eagerness in those pools of gold even if his lips remain shut; they don't let past the thoughts that torment Geralt. The truth he should have said. His jaw is set, tense, but the rest of him remains perfectly calm, torn between. </p><p> </p><p>“Ey, you two, there’s the whole week to stare at each other like fools, we have things to do now.”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier rolls his eyes and puts his hands on his hips as he turns around. There’s no respect in this household for lovesick fools, none at all. Still, he walks with a spring by Eskel’s side on their way out of the fortress, quickly buckling his coat. Geralt watches him go, grits his teeth and scrubs harder. This is the kind of thing he can see will come back to bite him on the ass. Soon, too. </p><p> </p><p>“Where are we going, again?” Jaskier asks, as if Eskel had told him before.  </p><p> </p><p>“To the hot springs, of course, as per Geralt’s advice.” </p><p> </p><p>Eskel holds the door open for him and Jaskier ducks under his arm and puts on the hood. The sun is shining bright, but snow still falls. Apparently the cold does not matter to Lambert who rests lying near the small stable, as sleepy as the horses themselves. His eyes are closed under an old open book on his face that gives him shade and that he surely keeps only for that purpose. The jug is firmly dug into a hole in the snow; that is, until Jaskier gracefully pulls it from it and jumps away, far enough to be out of reach or so he hopes. He pours its contest onto the snow. </p><p> </p><p>“Won’t get away with that easy,” Lambert growls at him. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a false threat, even if he sounds pissed; he doesn’t even bother moving the book. Eskel won’t comment on how permissive and pliant Lambert can be when it comes to Jaskier; it’s simply not wise. He has no doubt his brother from another mother would crush the skull of any other mortal who dared touch his ale. Obviously, Jaskier’s everyone’s weak spot. </p><p> </p><p>“Hard to be afraid of a man who can’t gut a trout.” Jaskier rests the jug against his hip and keeps walking with his chin held high like the conceited man he can pretend to be. A smile curves his lips in response to Lambert’s annoyed snort. When Eskel and Jaskier reach the hidden door, he leaves the jug at the entrance and quickly rushes near the water. </p><p> </p><p>All though he has not forgotten the majesty of it all, of those hot springs taken right out of a fantasy tale, it still takes his breath away. A second is needed to adjust to such beauty. The water seems even bluer in contrast to the white ripples that sunlight draws on the surface. Winter can’t fight against the warmth that emanates from the guts of earth itself and the sulphuric smell of the steam is quite strong as it fills the place with swirling gusts of greyish air. </p><p> </p><p>He’s not fully tricked by the beauty, however. He is keenly aware of how deep the water goes, and how unwilling to get in he is. Which leads him to ask the reason why he must be put through this yet again, as he has been keeping a rigorous regime of nearly daily baths. He looks up and away from the water, on his knees at the edge of the natural pool, but if the place is beautiful, then Eskel is nothing short of striking. Jaskier forgets what he meant to say. </p><p> </p><p>Now, he might be in love, but blind he is not. Like any Witcher of the School of the Wolf, Eskel is athletic, moves with certainty, and exudes a quiet type of power. His broad back has fewer scars than might be expected. Three deep long ones, claws, maybe, on one side and an ugly bite on his left shoulder. They are pink and bulky and almost seem to contour to accentuate the muscles that shape Eskel's body like those of any predator. </p><p> </p><p>It is shocking. It is the most difficult thing to be aware of since for Jaskier, Eskel is just another part of the pack. He is calm, he is practical, gentle and friendly. A simple man with unshakable values and a somewhat dry humor, but in Kaer Morhen, ironically, he does not look like a Witcher, like a hunter. </p><p> </p><p>In his home, he is the keystone between Geralt's silence and Lambert's cynicism, always attentive to what others need but never expecting something in return. It's almost natural that way in which he fills Lambert's glass, sharpens Geralt’s training sword unprompted, asks Jaskier about that verse that just didn't come out right. </p><p> </p><p>He has an eye for the little things and certainly treasures them. In lack of the greater, louder things in life that have been denied to him, he has built his own realm out of tiny specks of comfort, of camaraderie. Gestures he can care for and that are under his control. Things in which he finds his own value, his own haven. </p><p> </p><p>These are little acts that are not noticed, dropped amidst a conversation where twenty more things happen at the same time. It does not attract attention, it is not obvious. Not even Jaskier had noticed.</p><p> </p><p>Then he suddenly realizes that it is no accident. It is not that Eskel has always been like this but rather that he has decided to be. He has learned to be, so he might meet this need he has to care for those that matter to him. Eskel, who is a Witcher, does not express his appreciation with grandiose, if not with practical acts. Acts like helping Jaskier learn to swim, even if the mission has nothing to do with him. </p><p> </p><p>Only the slim, elastic waist cotton pants that enhance his waist are left on his body. They quickly get wet and stick to his skin when he drops into the water and it splashes onto Jaskier, drenching him. He should have expected as much. </p><p> </p><p>“Lesson number one. The key not to drown is the legs.” </p><p> </p><p>“Must I truly learn how to swim?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, it would come in handy, don’t you think?”</p><p> </p><p>It might? Jaskier doesn’t know particularly why. It’s true there are many rivers across the Rivia region, if they are to go that way. And that crossing them would be safer than heading for the bridges where surely Nilfgardian soldiers would keep guard. He figures at the very least it’s just another skill worth having and that it’s due he learns it. </p><p> </p><p>It’s alright; he has the resolve not to complain about whatever they deem required. After all, they know better and it isn’t just his life that’s in their hands, but also Essi’s. He trusts the Witchers with both; that’s the choice he made, and he means to keep his word.  </p><p> </p><p>Although his hands tremble as if made of paper, Jaskier gradually undoes the buttons of his coat, unties the knots in his shirt, his pants. He breathes deeply, staring at the water. He takes off his clothes until he is on equal terms with Eskel, who waits with the patience that characterizes him. </p><p> </p><p>This time it's not easier than the last, just faster. Like a jerk to a parched bandage hooked on a poorly healed wound, he drops into the water with his eyes closed tight, wrenching his fear. He falls like a stone towards the bottom and terror rises up his skin like a chill, makes him want to scream although he knows that if he does, the water will fill his lungs. He can not move even if he tries, even if he begs his body to do something about it. Before he loses control, a secure hug surrounds him and he feels Eskel's legs move between his own. They quickly emerge to the surface where Jaskier remains stiff like a board in the tight embrace of those arms. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, gods- Oh, my-” Jaskier starts muttering, heaving. </p><p> </p><p>He wishes he could curl into himself even if doing it wouldn’t take away from the fact that an endless pit of void surrounds him. There’s no place to step on and the water swirls between his grasping fingers, mocking him. Slowly the shushing sounds reach his ears, getting past the deafening ringing buzz. His terrified wide-open eyes take in the calmness of Eskel’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s right. It’s just water. Calm down.” He assures him. There’s no anger or frustration in his voice, which helps Jaskier a great deal more than he expected. “I am going to move us to the shallow part now.”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier swallows, lips turned in a tight line, and goes for a nod, not trusting his voice to obey him. He still closes his eyes tight when Eskel leans backwards and holds him against his chest. The fear lingers on his trembling hands because he chooses not to let it get the best of him, so he doesn’t claw at Eskel. In fact, he doesn’t do a thing until they reach the other side where he plunges himself towards the edge and holds on for dear life, slowly stretching his legs until he can feel the stone under his feet. </p><p> </p><p>Relief washes over him.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t last long. </p><p> </p><p>The minutes go by tortuously slow and Jaskier thinks it would have been wiser to drown when he had the chance. Still, he has to admit, it's kind of fun. The water is hot and Eskel's hands hold his tightly, helping him stay afloat on the spot. He is pretty sure he can hear it when his dignity hits rock bottom under the water, but he’s still grateful. The sensation of floating, although vertiginous, is at the very least curious. It is like flying, he imagines. To alleviate his nerves, Jaskier talks a blue streak. </p><p> </p><p>He tells Eskel of his fascination with the sea, which terrifies him and in turn bewitches him. Jaskier ends up talking about his first love, the Countess of Stael, between sighs and smiles; she can also be terrifying and bewitching. The ups and downs of the heart, he claims, are the best wild ride a man can take. Speaking of nobility and castles, he tells him about Princess Paveta's banquet. "As a silk merchant? Damn, I wish I was there," Eskel says with a laugh. It makes his shoulders shake, his chest become even wider when he throws his head back and slightly arches his back. The scars wrinkle strangely around his wide grin, but they are far from monstruos. Maybe not pretty, but simply part of Eskel. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier does not realize when the man is barely holding his hands anymore, he is too engrossed in recounting the time he convinced two husbands that their wives were cheating on them with the other, and that Jaskier had little to do with it. His smile from ear to ear beams like sun rays, nearly blinding. </p><p> </p><p>Eskel has a habit of remembering the past every time he looks Jaskier in the eye. It’s not strange with how deeply the man feels every single word he says. It should scare him or perhaps he should feel angry. It’s unclear but it doesn't matter either. After all, is it a comforting feeling of nostalgia that reaches out to him, and why would he decide to fight it? He does not.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers a dark night sitting under a blanket, hidden from thunder. The noise does not let him sleep. He shouldn't complain, he thinks, there are older boys who hear everything now, whose eyes have turned to those of a cat as well. He chooses to enjoy the night’s darkness before this privilege is taken away and lets the blanket of black that hangs over him help him rest his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>An ephemeral, childish thought, one of those he should no longer have even if he is still a child, crosses his mind. If he were not alone, everything would be easier. That way, he wouldn't have to do things for himself, he could do them for someone else. He would be responsible for them and thus, it would be easier to stay alive. Lately, death seems like a better option, but he can’t leave someone behind. He couldn’t do unto others as it’s been done to him. </p><p> </p><p><em> That’d be wrong </em> , thinks the little Eskel, <em> I’d have to be strong, be there for them </em> . <em> I’d be somebody to someone. </em> The next morning, one of the instructors arrives with a child his age. Geralt is his name, and he misses his mum. So does Eskel. For years, he thinks his prayers have been answered. When he realises it’s love, he thinks it’s a high price to pay, but he accepts his sentence anyway. Welcomes it. It’s been many years ever since.</p><p> </p><p>And that’s the tricky part. He could say he had nearly forgotten about it. Just another constant in his life much like the annual freezing of the northern rivers. So is his love for Geralt, natural, fluctuating, inevitable. But then there’s Jaskier and Eskel realizes... it’s happening all over again. </p><p> </p><p>It starts with that one thing that catches his eye in a different manner and before he knows it, it’s grown on him like a seconds skin, that craving to care and protect. It’s nearly unsettling. With Geralt, it had been the way he looked at everyone as if he could see past them, even as a child. A luring trap Eskel had willing fallen prey to; he wanted nothing more than to be understood. With Jaskier, it had been quite the opposite. If Geralt was the comfort of a shared path, his other side of the coin, then the bard was everything he wasn’t. </p><p> </p><p>A picture of what life could have been like. So human and yet he is the bearer of unnatural strength. Joyful and clever. Sharper than a sword, bolder than an arrow. When needed be, wiser than most, and gentler than many. No wonder the world spun around him, that everybody fell for his charm. A burning star with eyes the colour of the skies, that’s Jaskier. </p><p> </p><p>Dangerous. An unnecessary risk. </p><p> </p><p>Eskel has heard it before, that tale of the boy with wings of wax, as he had heard the one of the unruly child that fell for the wolf. He has to be strong yet again, but that suits him fine. It’s what he does; listen close, make the wise choice. And when Jaskier and Geralt learn to love one another, he’d be there patiently waiting to see how it goes. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, he takes away his hands from Jaskier’s and raises them in the air. It takes the bard a second but at last, he realises what that means. </p><p> </p><p>“-hould have seen the - Oh. Oh gods, I’m… I’m swimming. I’m <em> swimming. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Floating,” Eskel corrects him, and then gestures with a broad sweep of his arm. “Now if you want to swim, be my guest.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it <em> absolutely </em>necessary?” </p><p> </p><p>“Unless you can raise an army with the flick of a wrist, then yes,” the Witcher shrugs.  </p><p> </p><p>“What would we need an army for?” Jaskier frowns. He thinks back of his suspicions that a secret was being kept behind closed doors. “Why should I even learn to swim, in the first place?”</p><p> </p><p>It is then that Eskel realizes. And honestly, for a moment he wonders, how had he not known before.</p><p> </p><p>“Geralt didn’t tell you,” he says, and it’s not a question. He puts a hand to his forehead with a grunt of exasperation and his upper lip curls showing his canines, his clenched teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“Eskel?” Jaskier puts his feet on the stone floor and takes a hesitant step towards the man. </p><p> </p><p>“That fucking…!” he growls, frustration twisting into anger, and looks up at the sky in disbelief. “How could he?”</p><p> </p><p>Then he looks down and his fury spills over into the aridity of his words. He will not bury his other half because love has made him a coward; he will protect Geralt, no matter the cost. And for that, he takes the missing step towards Jaskier and the way his shock makes him wary, expectant. </p><p> </p><p>“Little Eye? She will be taken to Fren Aspra, the unbreachable fortress, to be sold like a <em> pig </em>by those bastards. I’m talking of countless soldiers guarding the place.” The words are spat from his mouth, angered, before he can think of a better way to say them. There’s no nice way to do this. “The slaves will be chained, locked away, famished and injured. The Velda River is the only feasible way in or out, if you ever made it that far. It’s more of a suicide than a rescue.”</p><p> </p><p>“And Geralt didn’t dare to tell you because he…” <em> he loves you “ </em>...he was worried it would break you.”</p><p> </p><p>“No…” A tentative smile is born and dies several times in Jaskier's mouth, never fully forming, making the corners twitch nervously. He is torn between believing it a joke or trusting what his eyes tell him. He snorts and he crosses his arms across his abdomen, places each hand on an elbow in a self-shooting gesture. “Ha! That’s… that’s a joke, right? That’s not funny. Take it back.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jaskier…” Eskel says softly. His wrath freezes on the spot, dies. He meets the fear in Jaskier’s face and how hope battles against it. He can’t bear it, so he looks down as he slowly closes his eyes. Resignation takes over his features in the form of sadness and a subtle frown. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, come on, what’s with that silly face? Just take it back…” Jaskier quickly reaches out with a hand to Eskel’s cheek, forcing him to look up so that he might see it for himself, see the truth written all over his face like an omen of death. Jaskier bites his lower lip, fights back the tears that threaten to spill, and begs, “Just take it back, please? Eskel? Please?” </p><p> </p><p>Eskel’s hand wraps around his and brings it down, then cocoons it against his other hand in a tight, grounding embrace. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I wish it weren’t the truth, but it is.” </p><p> </p><p>“But…” Jaskier’s voice falters, he hiccups and shakes his head, struggling to get a grip on any flimsy hope. “We can fight! I’ve learnt to fight!”</p><p> </p><p>“An army?” Eskel asks, sweet and sour. “Because that’s what they are.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then will sneak in, as you said.” Jaskier insists, pulling at their intertwined hands. He makes empty promises, “It’ll be fine. It’ll be.” </p><p> </p><p>“Jaskier…The chances of getting in are low, but getting out? It’s nearly impossible. You’ll die. Don't go, you're just a bard. Let Geralt take care of it.” </p><p> </p><p>The devastating reality razes Jaskier. He cannot breathe. The water feels cold as ice and infinite, surrounding him without escape. Jaskier breaks loose, rebels like a deer hooked on a stocks. He shakes his head energetically and yells at Eskel, who doesn't stop him nor blame him.  He understands that this is not the time to keep a cool head.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, then I’ll die! Eskel, you don’t understand. This is my responsibility, I left her behind. She never would have-” His voice fails him yet again and he falls forward, finds leverage with his hands on those shoulders. Right away, Eskel reaches out to hold him by the upper arms. Weakly, Jaskier mutters. “But if I could hear her laugh once more, I would die a happy man. I'm sure. She was always too good for this world and yet, I can’t imagine a world with her gone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then don’t. Don’t speak of her as if she were dead, she might not be.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s most likely, as you well said on my first night here.”  </p><p> </p><p>Eskel watches Jaskier threaten to crumble in front of him and doesn't hesitate to act to stop it. He won't allow Jaskier to think of Essi, nor the nightmares he still remembers, or the way Geralt has lied to him. He can't let him do that, he simply can't. So he takes a hand on his shoulder and brings it to his face, right on top of the jarred scars of rough texture and uneven edges. </p><p> </p><p>“These scars? My daughter.” he tells Jaskier, looking him in the eye with intent. The man blinks slowly, tries to calm his racing heart and mind. “My “Unexpected child”, as Vesemir puts it. Born in an eclipse, the princess of House of Ademeyn was marked by the Curse of the Black Sun. Many horrors it brought to her life until they brought her to Kaer Morhen to ask for asylum. We refused in the name of Witcher’s neutrality.”</p><p> </p><p>“You left her to die?,” Jaskier asks in but a thread of breath. </p><p> </p><p>The world is spinning still and the water is not getting any warmer and yet, there’s comfort to be found in the firm way in which Eskel holds onto his hand and presses it against his face. The strength he’s lost, he finds in those amber eyes. Hiding the chill and the shock in his bones, he waits for Eskel to speak. </p><p> </p><p>“A mistake. But she didn’t die. She lashed out and stabbed me in the guts, scarred me with her magic. For two years, she made a name for herself. A monstrous thing which travelled with two wolves and was blood thirsty as a vampire.” </p><p> </p><p>“What… happened? Did you get her back?” </p><p> </p><p>“No, but I put an end to her misery, and the misery she brought to Kaedwen as well. I killed the monster she became because I chose not to protect the child she once was. It was my responsibility. The price to pay for my neutrality.”  </p><p> </p><p>Heartbroken, Jaskier raises his other hand and brings it to Eskel's face as well, taking a step closer. The pain held at bay by Eskel's fortitude is praiseworthy. Jaskier has the feeling that his own face does not differ much in that aspect but at least he is lucky to be able to cry, to let it out. Although Eskel is no longer capable of crying, anguish always travels with him. Nonetheless, this isn’t for him. This is for Jaskier and the brave way he battles with his own racing thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>“So don’t, Jaskier,” Eskel orders. “Don’t speak as if Little Eye was dead. Don’t <em> ever </em>turn your back on the chance of protecting the innocent, a loved one. I did, and now my face will always remind me of my shame.” </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier doesn’t say a word and still steals a breath from the Witcher simply by the way the words resonate within each other. Through their eyes they gaze into the soul of the other man and in it see their shared fears. Undeserving. Uncaring. As cold as their demons. The mere thought of turning that which hurt them in the first place trickles down their spine in the form of a subtle tremour. </p><p> </p><p>“I made the mistake of refusing love, of abandoning a child, and I’ve long accepted that love is, thus, not something I deserve. But you and I are nothing alike, little lark. You do deserve it, and deserve to get Miss Daven back. All I ask is for you to trust Geralt. Trust he will keep his promise, and don't go.”</p><p> </p><p>And Jaskier is usually a man of words. He is the one known to say what people want to hear, to have them wrapped around his finger. In that moment he finds there’s no need to pretend or think twice. He leans forward and presses his forehead against Eskel’s. The gesture comforts them both, grounds them there amidst the blue crystalline water. </p><p> </p><p>Gazing into an abyss of gold, Jaskier lets out the words that cross his mind and for once, all thought terrified, devastated, he also feels comprehended. This is dangerous territory, to lay bare their secrets for the other to see, and yet it feels safe. It feels right, like looking into the mirror. </p><p> </p><p>“Your eyes, there’s so much they hold.”</p><p>Eskel gifts him a saddened smile and rubs his palm against Jaskier’s hand. He chuckles, tries to lighten the mood. He knows he asks of Jaskier something the man can't give. It's easy to know he won't stay behind, not when such guilt hunts him. Eskel can understand that, respect it even, but it doesn't make it any easier. He's not an optimist, never has been. That leaves him at a crossroad and there's no doubt on to which path he must go. </p><p><br/>
“You are one to talk.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This fic is on hold until I'm done with my exams at the end of June. Apologies.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Sheets like a bride's gown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Look. You won't understand shit at the start. Keep reading. Trust me. You didn't miss anything.<br/>Love ya</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>[THIS CHAPTER IS NOT CANNON.</strong>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>IT DID NOT ACTUALLY HAPPEN]</strong>
  </span>
</p><p>          Eskel is a quick-minded man and yet his thoughts, like his hands, are unraced. It is simple to unbutton the cotton shirt and let it slide around shoulders, down the arms, until it rests against Jaskier's hands. The neck of it shags in a subtle curve under his ass. The sleeves have turned into a cloth poodle around his wrists. Inevitably, it falls to the ground as gravity desires.</p><p> </p><p>          So Eskel replaces its lost gentle grip with that of his own two hands, tenderly curling his fingers until they rest against Jaskier’s pulse. He slowly makes the hands rise above their heads and hears the trembling sigh that departs from opened lips. The gesture exposes Jaskier’s chest, makes it stand out under Lambert’s hunger, but the younger Witcher does not move from where he leans against the wall.</p><p> </p><p>          Instead, he avidly takes in the way Eskel presses close against the slightly arched back and feels the fluttering heartbeat against his own chest. One hand is enough to hold both Jaskier’s wrists; it barely is, but it is. The other one is free to kindly - just one finger tracing sinuous lines - go back down the wrists, the side of the forearm, the hidden face of the upper arm.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier drops his head back against a wide shoulder, lets out a silent call for Lambert and the man reads his lips and tenses his whole body in response, ready to obey any and every one of his desires. He leans forth, swallows and licks his lips, lets his gaze travel down the path Eskel draws but his brother subtly shakes his head. And Lambert understands; this isn’t for him.</p><p> </p><p>          Eskel twists his hand, now the backside of two fingers leave goosebumps in their wake down the edge of an armpit. They caress the chest, play loosely with the hair there and scratch enticingly where hardened muscle meets the bone of a rib. He smiles and closes his eyes for a split second when Jaskier’s fingers turn hands into fists. The tendons pop, which Eskel feels under his fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>          Still holding him up like a precious lamb, a strained lute chord, the Witcher peppers his tense neck with kisses and decides to rest his face against it for now. It smells nicely of sweat and citrus; it sounds heavenly of a galloping heart.</p><p> </p><p>          Eskel can’t read minds and yet, he knows what Jaskier wants. But he is as patient as lustful, so he silences the new pleading sigh with a faint shushing sound. A thumb swipes against the hairy navel and the other against the wrists he holds tight. It’s alright; Jaskier can take so much more.</p><p> </p><p>          Lambert grunts and clenches one hand around his hard cock through the pants. Jaskier won’t close his lidded eyes nor stop the tremors from making him contort his body. In the search for a firmer touch, he wantonly moans around o-shaped lips. Eskel cups him and rolls his balls between his fingers through the thin layer of cloth.</p><p> </p><p>          The Witcher lets out a snort of amusement and licks a stripe up the neck then nibbles on his earlobe and Jaskier tries his best to stay still, but it’s hard.</p><p> </p><p>          - Lambert.</p><p> </p><p>          To Eskel’s calm call, the Witcher responds by finally standing from the wall. Whatever it means, it’s an order, something spoken of beforehand. Jaskier pays as close attention as he can while those playful grazing fingers dance between the edge of tickling him and luring him.</p><p> </p><p>          This night, Lambert is not wearing his heavy armour, the one that makes him look more Bear than Wolf. There is no need for it. There isn’t either for the dirty shirt, all sweat, grease and oil, so it is taken off in a simple move. No anger, no loudness. Lambert is willing today to bend to the needs of Jaskier, to take him apart and build him back up, in whichever way is needed.</p><p> </p><p>          It’s slow-paced like those ball-room dances he hates but Lambert loves the rhythm of ragged breath Jaskier offers him, a most appetizing reward. The pendant drops back into place amidst the wide chest, fuzzy with hair much coarser than Jaskier’s. There is obvious strength in every muscle honed to perfection. There is also fat in all the right places.</p><p> </p><p>          He is wide and brazen. Takes up space shamelessly. Owns his prideful nature with deftness and it makes Jaskier weak at the knees to see that feral smile. The hungry shine on golden cat eyes ravages him silently with every soundless step Lamber takes toward him. Eskel keeps Jaskier with his ass pressed against his own scorching warmth. It’s simple to do so when his right hand has caged the bard’s cock and balls, a wordless warning the man obeys in all eagerness.</p><p> </p><p>          Lambert’s strides are long and lazy. They make his bulky form sway from side to side and he angles his head and tilts his chin up. In an arrogant manner, he smirks down at Jaskier. It’s sweet the way the bard is still willing to put up a fight. His perfect teeth bite into the lower lip so no plead may leave them.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier can’t help but struggle against his own desires. He craves that game they play so he glares, huffs, turns his head away. His body disagrees, sweats and shivers and begs for Lambert.</p><p> </p><p>          And that won’t do.</p><p> </p><p>          The Witcher will earn Jaskier’s surrender, he has before. It won’t even be hard today. Eskel smiles again half-hidden against the long neck when Lambert arches a brow.</p><p> </p><p>          Lambert brings two fingers and a thumb to his mouth, wets heavily them with his tongue. Those calloused hands reach for Jaskier’s nipples and smear saliva over them in tiny firm circles. The bard holds a breath and closes his eyes tight, the wall he glares at fading to black.</p><p> </p><p>          Still, he is shamelessly curving his back, presenting his chest as a whore would, taking in a deep breath. Lambert teases him the way he likes it. Jaskier feels desperation quickly grow with the barely-there touch.</p><p> </p><p>          The saliva makes it easy to glide, smooth and painless. Tips of fingertips nudge up and down the very tip of his nipples. It’s a strange pleasure. Not quite a tickle, more like a tremor.</p><p> </p><p>          Deliberately slow, with the right amount of strength. Tic, tac, in synch with the clock. Up with the edge of a blunt nail, down with a rough fingerpad. Over and over. A minute passes. Then another.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier lets out a soft complain, a muffled cry. Eskel leaves wet open-mouthed kisses down his neck, reminds him cruelly of what he holds in his hand by rolling his balls in it, then holding tight at the edge of uncomfortable. A simple shock of pleasure.</p><p> </p><p>          It makes the bard gasp and he drops his head forward, but Eskel is quick to bite him in the nape of his neck like an ill-mannered pup. The pain makes him snap back to position. Lambert snorts and takes in the broken look of Jaskier’s teary eyes with a smirk.</p><p> </p><p>          The feeling is ever-growing because Lambert hasn’t stopped, and as his nipples harden, the relentless soft-touch becomes a tad irritating. Tic. Tac. Tic. Tac. Fuck, it burns so gently. The pain builds up and merges with pleasure. His skin reddens and is so good. Jaskier tries to plead with his eyes through the tears of frustration. All he gets is the fingers to rest against his skin as if ready to pinch him, and he feels so sore there. It’ll be bad, it’ll be great.</p><p> </p><p>          If he gives up and surrenders to Lambert, Jaskier knows the man will pleasure him properly. If he begs, he’ll get whatever he asks for. But there is that smirk, that curved brow telling him he is losing. He’ll go down with a fight. Jaskier looks away again like he couldn’t care less.</p><p> </p><p>          Slowly but surely, those two fingers tighten, pinch and pull at his nipples in one fluid motion. A sting, a strange pleasure. It leaves quickly and when it does, Lambert’s coarse palms rub against him in a brute manner but the pressure is grounding and fades away any pain.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier grunts, stomps a foot against the ground and clenches his teeth, but all he gets is Lambert leaning forth and licking a stripe all the way up from his chin to his ear. Eskel gives him space, he is happy to play with the hard cock in his hand and make sure that Jaskier’s arms are perfectly strained.</p><p> </p><p>          And then, Lambert once again wets his fingers. Jaskier feels the tongue play with his ear shell too. He shivers. Then the young Wolf brings them back to his tortured nipples, makes sure skin doesn’t drag on skin too badly. He swipes with his big thumbs from side to side. And pinches him slowly again, pulling at his skin.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier growls through clenched teeth a mild complaint. His body trashes, forth and back, confused. Against his ass, he can feel Eskel’s cock. He knows Lambert’s predatory gaze is eating him up.</p><p> </p><p>          Then those hands grab the sides of his chest, fingers splayed right over his pecs like the bars of a cage. Blunt nails bite under his clavicle and then drag down in angry red lines. Down, down, all the way down his nipples, his ribs, his belly. Jaskier lets out a cry of pain, sudden and loud and quenched. He tries to curl into a ball but he can’t hide his chest from the nails that now go back up slowly, or from the fingers that threaten him by drawing circles around his reddened nipples.</p><p> </p><p>          He can’t. He can’t hide. He can’t do it because Eskel is so strong, he is unmovable, and hot, burning up, sweaty. The soft kisses on his nape do nothing to ease the pain, neither does the way Lambert nibbles at his earlobe.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier struggles to break free on instinct but Eskel holds him tighter by the balls, bordering on painful and pulls at his wrists so he’ll bend his elbows and his hands come to a stop behind Eskel’s head. Without thinking, he grabs at the hair there and the hand lets him free slowly.<br/>When he doesn’t move, Eskel rewards him with a gentle growl of approval, a nudge of his nose against the back of his ear like he is scenting him up. It has Jaskier lolling his head forward like a deadweight.</p><p> </p><p>          He opens his eyes slowly. They’re heavy with lust when he looks up at Lambert who isn’t much taller than him, but with his head down and feeling so small, the Witcher might as well be a titan. Jaskier gives up, surrenders over his dignity, to word it some way.</p><p> </p><p>          - Lambert. Lambert, no, please. I don't want it like that.</p><p> </p><p>          - You don’t? -he repeats, feigning surprise.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier is certainly not a fan of pain and it breaks him apart far more than it builds him up. So the Witcher won’t abuse that. Won’t treat the young beauty at his care so cruelly. He has what he needs, he can tell in the way all fire is gone from his pretty blue eyes.</p><p> </p><p>          Lambert rubs his nose against Jaskier; they both know it means agreeance, servitude. An unspoken “that’s alright, you’ve done enough. You are enough.” Jaskier smiles, warm and soft. And now Eskel’s touch is taking away his attention.</p><p> </p><p>          He is rubbing him with eagle’s precision. Right where he is most sensitive in swift strokes, pleasuring him slowly but certainly. The kisses come back. Jaskier lets out a sigh, falling short of a moan. It serves as a plead, or so he hopes. Lambert eats up his uneven breath in a kiss that is a tad rough, as in certain, dominant. It leaves no room for hesitation nor doubt, but it also doesn’t demand more than Jaskier gives.</p><p> </p><p>          - Jaskier.</p><p> </p><p>          The name echoes between the walls of the library. Jaskier contorts his body to better feel the way both men press up against him. But they are weightless. Their skin feels much like cotton would, old, rough cotton. Their voices turn distant and are morphing into another one far better known.</p><p> </p><p>          - Jaskier. Open your eyes.</p><p> </p><p>          And he does. Stares right back at the glint of gold that catches any light in the room. Is dark enough that the cat pupil is a black abyss. Geralt is as graceful and poised, as usual, one might say he is carved out of stone. Then he tilts his head to one side slightly.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier should have seen the bowl of stew in his hand, steaming hot. Or the way in which he has crouched by the bed they now share to be as welcoming as a Witcher can be. If his heart weren’t in his throat while, ironically, all blood insisted on remaining in his cock, Jaskier might have even noticed the tiny side smile; the nerves very well hidden behind the facade.</p><p> </p><p>          Then it snaps. Words start pouring down Jaskier’s lips. He doesn’t stutter, he rarely does. And his motions are as flamboyant as expected of him, and yet - Geralt can tell, something is different. He avoids his eyes. His face is frozen in a gesture of wide eyes that don't match his cheerful tone.</p><p> </p><p>          - Geralt! Dear lords, what a terrible thing, I’m so late!</p><p> </p><p>          - Late?</p><p> </p><p>          - Yes! Vesemir and I must finish a heated debated over the correct dismembering of a vampire for proper dissection and study… -one thing Jaskier is grateful for is his quick mind.</p><p> </p><p>          Geralt doesn’t think it twice; why would he blame an erection? Jaskier is a man. And not a shy one by any means. Surely, is because of his treason; the betrayal of the trust the bard had always put on his hands to do the right thing. The White Wolf he had called him. It hurts.</p><p> </p><p>          - ...Now you’ll see the most interesting part is how the muscles seem to stiffen so drastically after death… -Jaskier jumps out of bed, carrying the sheets with him, bundling them at his navel. They trail behind him like a shitty bride’s gown.</p><p> </p><p>          White Wolf? A poor bastard would be a better title.</p><p> </p><p>          But Geralt is not a man of many words, so how could he know? This was him trying, with actions. A bowl of stew in hand, softly spoken words with a voice too rough too deep, a gentle hand rocking Jaskier back and forth to wake him up. He is very much awake now.</p><p> </p><p>          So much that he is piling up all his clothes in one arm, still holding the sheets in place with the other. He is lightly blushing and hasn’t stopped talking yet which altogether is as normal as enticing. Geralt wants to shut him up in the gentlest manner, the dirtiest way.</p><p> </p><p>          -… So basically my point stands, doesn’t it? Yes. It is better to bring about everything needed when hunting down a vampire in the name of science. Else you risk a lesser quality! Vesemir! -he pulls the door open. The edge of the sheets nearly gets trapped when Jaskier slams it shut.</p><p> </p><p>          But Vesemir had left already. Worse even, Geralt can remember them having that very conversation not many days ago. So it’s a lie. He is puzzled. Anyone can tell the confusion in his eyes. He rests his elbows in his thighs, still crouched. In his hand that looks empty, just a fist, rests an old piece of paper.</p><p> </p><p>          It’s titled “Yennefer”, for the things he made sure to not so subtly do to earn her favour and a place in her sheets when he needed a sorceress. Which he’d like to say was never, but the world was a strange place. Apparently, the rules didn’t apply for Jaskier. They don’t work. So what works? What is he supposed to do?</p><p> </p><p>          He groans, frustrated. He just meant to talk to Jaskier. Tell him he didn’t mean for him to learn the truth that way. His face still hurts; Eskel had truly hit him hard. Harder than ever before. It’s alright, it was the one thing he needed to get out of his trance.</p><p> </p><p>          There is no way from now own Geralt will be neither a coward nor a fool. Simply put, there’s much at stake. And far more to win, to reach for, fight for. And what is he, a Witcher? If not a survivor? If not a fighter?</p><p> </p><p>          He stands up. His eyes fall on the bowl at hand before he shrugs and drinks it down, scorching as it is. There are countless chances to earn redemption. First tries are nearly always doomed. It still itched under his skin, that desire to trail after Jaskier - oh, how ironic, isn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier nearly trips down the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>        <em>  What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?</em></p><p> </p><p>          In his frenzy, he bumps against Lambert. Quite literally ricochets off that man who is a wall of hard flesh and fat. Jaskier goes even paler. The Witcher frowns and twists his mouth in a gesture of annoyance.</p><p> </p><p>          - Why the fuck are you looking at me like that? -he says, squaring up. Jaskier looks terrified for a split second, then mortified the next. <em>Melitele, he is huge and brazen. Can it be? Could it be? Would I- No. Nonono</em>. Then he is running again.- Hey! What the-? Come back you weird fuck!</p><p> </p><p>          He doesn’t. There is far too little blood in his brain to care for that. Now, he just feels bothered. Not quite angry. Not quite lustful. Mostly confused and rushed and oh, he needs air. This is so silly, so unlike him!</p><p> </p><p>          He always takes what he wants with his way of words - he is sinuous, strong, manly yet with the prettiest face and the longest lashes. More elven than the elves, more man than the men and with those wits that are only his, they all make Jaskier a lover of the finest sinful art.</p><p> </p><p>          So why does his heart flutter? Certainly not the first time the devil sneaks into his dreams and wouldn’t it be a lie if he said he didn’t enjoy it for many lazy minutes, pleasuring himself awake?</p><p> </p><p>          But dreams are dreams, and you let them go! They don’t matter, they’re just the imagination of the flesh twisting into dirty, dirty dreams.</p><p> </p><p>          Just a dream. Just a silly little thing.</p><p> </p><p>          Jaskier loves silly little things. Jaskier maybe… just maybe can love those men too. And his body screams in agreeance. His mind is so blank. His heart, confused. But Geralt. Geralt. I love Geralt. He is the one. I know he is! I’m all for him, my muse, my Witcher.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1. Idk what this is. Will probably get deleted and substituted for the actual plan of a chapter I had. Give me time. </p><p>2. So why didn't you upload the real one? Time -Time- Time. I finished my exams yesterday. Skill. I'm rusty. It's been a while. Energy. I'm exhausted.</p><p>3. What this is supposed to tell you is that<br/>A. This fic is not dead.<br/>B. I am not dead. </p><p>I will finish this. I know everything that has to take place. Don't worry about that. I'm back.</p><p>ps. You are all super awesome and supportive and you all got BDE and a good heart. Stay safe.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. I never meant to hurt you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[PREVIOUS CHAPTER DOES *NOT* COUNT FOR THE STORY PLOT]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>        Essi is in his thoughts, how could she not be? And Jaskier is sure that she travels in a cart by now. Side by side with others she cries, badly injured and malnourished on yet another day of her unjust penance. It boils his blood to know nothing can be done as of yet. Then the focus becomes </span>
  <em>
    <span>yet, not yet. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        But eventually. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        That has to be enough even as it isn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        In his hurricane of a mind, many memories come and go and clash. Not just Essi but everyone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>In your presence, my heart knows no shame. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt’s smile, the one that reaches his eyes; as rare as precious, cherished by Jaskier. He wants to see it again, then he wants to slap it off his face. How dare he keep such a secret? Why? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Ah, if only Jaskier knew what other dirty little secrets Geralt keeps and fondly treasures as a ghostly touch on his thin chapped lips. Would that make it worse? Hard to tell. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Everyone is on his mind. Everyone is Eskel too. Goodhearted Eskel. Rough around the edges yet kind within. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You remind me of simpler times.</span>
  </em>
  <span> An approachable Witcher is an oxymoron in itself. Why so suddenly does he fill the gaps in Jaskier’s poorly mended heart? He does not know nor yearns to. The fact that he does is suffocating enough. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your eyes, there is so much they hold. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Jaskier twirls the charcoal in his fingers until they’re blacker than soot. He likes Eskel. Why wouldn’t he? And he wants Eskel, which is a though that hit him like a hammer, yet should he? Why not Lambert, at this point? He likes him too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>        Am I that desperate? That stupid? Must be, to be tricked into thinking Geralt saw me as an equal. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier snorts, abrupt and angry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        His brain is a master of chess and his heart can barely play checkers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        His body quite remembers been pressed up against that big man, certain that Lambert had cheated and unwilling to let that slip. Jaskier is sure a few strokes of the charcoal could evoke that provoking smile onto the paper, but he doesn’t need to do that. It’s on his mind too. Or on his lungs, perhaps, stealing the breath from him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        His volatile emotions tug at him like a pack of hungry dogs. Sitting on the counter, he rocks his legs and his heels insist against the wood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Tap. Tap. Tap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Hard, to release the tension from his shoulders as if it dripped down his body. It doesn't do much good. Jaskier is unclear on what to do, appeases his energy by scribbling swirls of black ink on the paper, ruining the poetry not so long ago written. Anyway, he wasn’t going to tell Geralt those words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Outside the kitchen, under the shadow of the stairs, Lambert is as indecipherable as ever. He seems to be waiting quietly. Perhaps he is the only one who knows what will happen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Partly, it amuses him but also, it bothers him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not interested, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lambert had said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>got my eyes on someone already. - </span>
  </em>
  <span>On Jaskier, was clearly implied. - If nothing, the man is sincere, and damned be the consequences. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Tack. Tack. Tack. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The metallic sound of his fingers drumming against the flat face of the sword. It is the fifth that he has sharpened today although they do not need more swords. It is a habit to try to keep the home as professional and impeccable as it can be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Ridiculous, really. But it seems like it's the time to be absurd so Lambert snorts and shrugs it off. The sound of steps from the outside reaches his ears. He has decided that he is more amused than bothered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Eskel is sitting on the railing on the second floor, staring at the front door. Motionless as a gargoyle he waits. A knee pressed against his chest and the small heel of his boot butts against the edge of the marble. Golden eyes hardly blink. It is a calm fury. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        There is no noise from him to echo in the quiet of this day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Lambert looks up at him with a sideways smile and Eskel frowns in response. He doesn't find it funny. The gate opens slowly in case there is anyone left in the fortress who is not waiting for Geralt. "Let everyone be warned, he has returned" seem to say the squeaks of the hinges.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Geralt feels a chill as soon as he steps on the first tile. With a leather-clad hand, he removes the hood and the snow falls to the ground. He pushes the door closed behind him slowly in tune to the hissing sound of a sword being sheathed. As the hilt clicks against the metal rim, so does Geralt clear his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “I’m back.” He says unceremoniously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        It feels as though they expect him to say something, those brothers of his, but not that. Now many may think Geralt as some sort of brute but then again, many are wrong. He has roamed the world for long enough to know what to say, to who and how. A dangerous balance between honesty and insult that he is too tired to walk today. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Geralt takes slow steps towards the kitchen, rabbits tightly tied together swinging from his hand. Lambert stretches languidly with a yawn. As he does, his legs reach far enough to get in the way of his brother. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        With tension in the air, it is instinctive for Geralt to stop and carefully look sideways, meet him in the eye. There is no missing the sharpness of his stare. From the archway, he frowns at Lambert, who sits a mere meter away. All he gets are raised brows and shoulders in a cocky gesture; maybe a challenge, or a question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Not bothering with words, as his tongue is more sharp than silver, Geralt throws him a questioning look. Lambert snorts, shakes his head and leans forth resting his forearms on his knees. He goes back to sharpening the sword. Geralt frowns again but as his way is free again and he has a task at hand, he chooses to finish it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The kitchen fires welcome him as warmly as Jaskier does not. For instance, he doesn’t even look up from the paper. Moreover, he sits further back on the counter until his back is against the stone wall as if he wants to get away from Geralt. He crosses his legs and clenches his jaw.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Good evening, Jaskier.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Silence. For any human, there would have been no answer given. Just silence. But for his mutated senses, there is much to note. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        For one, Lambert's gaze still follows him like a vulture's, he can feel it on the back of his neck. Geralt contains the urge to turn around and face the threat. In Kaer Morhen there should be none, yet that’s not what this feels like. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Then, light as a feather, Eskel drops off the ledge with minimal noise. A few steps and he calmly leans against the arch with his arms folded, an unkind gesture quickly added to the way Geralt is beginning to feel cornered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        He figures that out merely by the faint sounds behind him echoed in stone and tile as his eyes are still on Jaskier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Delicate fingers and their many calluses grip the charcoal with enough force to deform it. Almost the entire sheet is covered in a black vortex that the poet insists on tracing over and over again. His shoulders are tense and his lungs feel with a forced calm as if he is counting each inhale and exhale.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Geralt has seen Jaskier angry countless times. He is such a rampant man that a stone in his shoe is a guarantee of a tantrum. He has seen him go from joy to fury because that word on the tip of his tongue clings to it as he does to his breeches, fleeing swiftly in the night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Never before has he seen Jaskier hold back. Wouldn’t that be hypocritical given how often Jaskier curses Geralt’s incapability to express his feelings? Yes, it would be. But since it is impossible for a human to always behave in such a way that they become perfectly predictable, there must be a reasoning behind this behaviour. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The Witcher subtly nodes to himself as if this is a discovery, and not an obvious truth. He drops the rabbits by Jaskier’s side. Lately, he has been avoiding the man but maybe he can do so no more. Lambert and Eskel guarding the archway like hounds suggest so. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “You are angry.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Blue eyes turn away from the paper and Geralt, who’s expecting cornflowers and an explosion of words, is met by ice. A hostile, endless expanse of ice where no life blooms. If he had to swear on something, it would be that this uneasiness is what mere mention of doomsday conveys to all pious religions men. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Geralt think he’ll be kinder to their stupid beliefs next time. Rare is the occasion when a Witcher can’t stand looking danger in the eye, rarer still for the cause to be a man. Of course, never before has a simple man held the heart of a Witcher in their hands. And he is squeezing it as tight as the charcoal in his fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Not angry. Frustrated?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        He pulls the knife from his belt and gets to work, eyes trained on the skin he skillfully tears from meat. Jaskier still studies him, chest rising with calculated breaths he lets out silently through his slightly parted lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        His unreadable face is proof that he has been between wolves for long. Geralt taught him that. Is the stare of a hunter who waits for the perfect moment to then slain the enemy. Effective, merciless. He would be proud if he weren’t concerned. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Both?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The first rabbit lands on a big pot with a loud thud and the Witcher feels a slight empathy for it he hasn’t in forever. Projecting, perhaps. A funny thought crosses his mind; had Jaskier and Yennefer met under different circumstances, they might have been best friends. Cunning, emotional and always with a hand on Geralt’s reins. A power couple the world should be glad not to have to bear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “I did something.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The second rabbit is dropped more gently. Geralt wipes the bloody knife against the battered rag. Unable to avoid it, he takes a deep breath when Dandelion decides to jump up, notebook in hand. It's as if he forgot to breathe for too long. In his hands, the third rabbit shakes, because his hands do too. It's easy to put the puzzle pieces together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Dandelion knows the truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        This should take a weight off his chest but it doesn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        And it is not so that he feels that Eskel - because he knows that it was Eskel, who has a soft spot in his withered heart for Jaskier- has betrayed him. He has not.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Geralt betrayed himself, fleeing like a small child. As the tale goes, the snowball grew and grew, rolled and rolled and run over his house of cards, his stupid precariously balanced dream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        As if he had the right to protect his own heart, which he himself does not usually call that, above Jaskier’s! And whatever the others decide to make up for his mistake, it is well decided.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “I deserved to be trusted,” Jaskier mutters behind him, back to back, clutching his notebook to this chest and finding strength in the encouraging nod Eskel gives him from the archway. So his voice turns louder, steadier. “And you never deserved my trust.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The words pierce through him. Worst of all, they ring true. Past the knot in his throat, he pushes air and saliva, so he might utter at least one word, which is the least Jaskier deserves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Alright.” Geralt agrees and forces the knife between the skin and meat one last time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Alright.” Jaskier repeats with barely a thread of a voice. His mouth turns into a tight line and one fat tears pools on its edge so fast it spills over, down his jaw, neck and onto the cotton edge of Eskel’s shirt. Faintly, thought his ears are ringing, he hears Lambert growl and facepalm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Geralt smells the salt in the air. There is much more he wants to say. The point is, he doesn’t think he should. For every action he takes, there is usually a plan. A though-out scheme that is clearly missing from this picture ever since he decided love was something he was capable of. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of ruining, perhaps. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Jaskier wipes away his sadness from his eyes with the rough frayed edge of that shirt too big for him. At least, he is numb and exhausted enough not to be making a show out of this. His mind screams to his feet to make a move but he remains frozen in place, back to back with the man he loves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        If only he could understand, he could forgive. God damn it, that’s all he wants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Is all he wants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        All he wants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        All that he won’t get. Once again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The third and last rabbit is thrown violently against the pot. Geralt drops the casserole with a bang on the iron bars and even the fire seems to be on the verge of exploding, the way the flames rise and sizzle. Jaskier curls a bit into himself. The pages crinkle in his tight grip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        With eyes closed tight, he makes his way out of the kitchen but a big hand stops him by his chest on the archway. Then it goes up to this shoulder, behind his back and pushes him firmly against Lambert’s side. It’s easy to tell is him by the lack of manners. All in all, he means well and clearly, Jaskier could use a hug.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Geralt!” Eskel shouts in anger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        There is no hesitation. He walks up to his other half, turns him around by the shoulder then throws a punch, but stops just short of hitting him hard. Eskel’s monstrous golden eyes open in shock, his mouth slacks open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Unspilled tears make Geralt’s eyes shine strangely like it’s not meant to be. Yet there is no emotion conveyed, none at all. And fuck it, it hurts deeply to see it, to know it’s perfectly faked. Eskel uses that raised fist to grab him by the collar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “You said it. You said you would tell him the truth, </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>the truth. Or do you lie to me too now?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Geralt looks down. His body is covered in a cold sweat and although he tries, by all means, to be who he should be, that is no longer possible. And perhaps it is the realization of that, like a bucket of cold water, that turns the tables.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        There is no way back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        He screwed up, or not, or who knows. Not him, of course. Desperate, he looks up again and receives a tired sigh from Eskel, a headshake. And a hopeful half-smile. Slowly Eskel's hand travels from the collar of the bib down his chest, feeling the slow beat under his palm. All his life by his side, watching his efforts, admiring his courage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “You dumb fuck,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s. “You’ll regret it. Don’t we have enough regrets, my friend?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        So many years of lying to himself that Eskel is not surprised if Geralt has come to believe his own excuses. Always talking about the greater evil and the lesser evil, as if there was no option for more. As if there was no good thing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Cut from the same stone, to blame for the same sins, but there was no way in hell Eskel would let Geralt lose such opportunity right before his eyes. Not with how dearly he himself wishes for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        One step to the side is enough for Geralt and Jaskier to meet each other in the eye again, now that Lambert has made the man turn around and holds him tight by the shoulders, ever the brute. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “I did not lie to you.” Geralt swears, hand to his heart. “I have never lied to you, nor will I. It was precisely for this reason that I stayed away from you. I needed time. I believed that somehow, with enough patience, I would find a way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Jaskier’s lower lip trembles imperceptibly. He takes in a big breath, squares his shoulders and raises his chin. Sometimes, there is no denying his noble heritage. Braveness comes in many shapes and not to let oneself be walked over can certainly only be called that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Then you were going to tell me.” Jaskier takes a few steps forth, determination on his eyes. No fear, nor shame. “Say it, Geralt, were you going to tell me or not?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted to tell you. Always.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The Witcher answers with clarity, and meets him halfway. This is his only chance so he shuts his mind, as foreign as that is to him, and lets his mouth go on on its own, guided by strange forces and that insistent tug in his chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “We both know what the news entail, Jaskier. So I can only hope you understand why being their bearer, to you of all people, wasn’t an easy task.” He shakes his head lightly, gestures calmly. “I do not try to excuse myself, or ask for forgiveness, nor do I expect it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “I do want to forgive you.” Jaskier reaches out with a hesitant hand that slowly but surely comes to rest on top of Geralt’s, over his heart. “You are important to me, Geralt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        With crackling flames in the background and an incredulous snort from Lambert, the stone mask that is Geralt's face shatters. First is but a slight scratch in the form of the most subtle expression of surprise but quickly, the scratch turns into cracks and the pantomime falls apart. It becomes easy not to think. And on his lips, a slight smile, quite tiny compared to Dandelion's.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The man, the poet, his barker, his friend, he smacks him on his chest playfully once. And with one charcoal-dirty finger, pushes threateningly against the leather repeatedly to the rhythm of his words</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “But you're stubborn,” </span>
  <em>
    <span>tap</span>
  </em>
  <span> “old-fashioned,” </span>
  <em>
    <span>tap</span>
  </em>
  <span> “and a bore. To top it all, there is no man-made way to understand you.” Jaskier throws his arms in the air, laughs. Geralt snorts, shrugs. That’s fair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Sometimes you talk to me, understand me and Melitele keep us, you might even smile with me!” Jaskier dramatically gestures to Eskel, boisterous, loud. “And then what? Huh? What does he do? Oh, you disappear with the wind. Or you close down like ... like… like a poached clam!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “A poached clam.” Geralt repeats. His lip trembles, its corners go back and forth before the gentle smile turns into a mocking grin. “A fucking poached clam.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        This feeling in his stomach is well-known, and as it sprouts into a full-on laughter, shoulders shaking, back bending, he realizes; Jaskier is like family to him too, much like the other Witchers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        The man goes a bit red, then again so does Geralt from lack of air. Jaskier smacks him with the notebook in the head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Yes, that's you, not a wolf, a dry old poached clam!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        Eskel looks at them with softness, standing quietly by the fire as there is no reason to let the rabbits burn. He is amused by the unintelligible murmurs of disgust that Lambert spits as he drags a stool and sits by the table, even going as far as to pretend to puke. He is like a child, just as Vesemir says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “Well, if you’d let me, I’d like to be the White Wolf instead, and honour that title. Honour our friendship.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>        “You are the worst best thing to ever occur to me, you Witcher.” Jaskier assures, crossing his arms and blowing air through his nose. If he had his feathered hat, its tip would have swayed in time with his hips and hands. “The fates I damn for this! Do you understand the levels of my disgrace, Geralt? How deeply I care for you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>         “I do. I do now. I care too.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>           <em>I love you. And I'll do my best to deserve you, to keep you. </em></span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>[PREVIOUS CHAPTER DOES *NOT* COUNT FOR THE STORY PLOT]</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>IF YOU LIKE IT, YOU CAN PICK IT UP AND FINISH IT HOWEVER YOU WANT. I CAN ALSO GIVE YOU THE DRAFT/IDEAS I HAD. IF YOU WANT IT, JUST COMMENT SO. YOU CAN COPY ALL THE CHAPTERS TO YOUR ACCOUNT AND I'LL DELETE THIS FIC. I JUST ASK IF YOU DON'T GET AROUND TO FINISHING IT, THAT YOU DO THE SAME.</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168094">How to Win the Game</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohydrated/pseuds/sohydrated">sohydrated</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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